


Love Itself Shall Slumber On

by whyyesitscar



Series: In the Days of the Comet [1]
Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:56:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyyesitscar/pseuds/whyyesitscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Myka Bering will always be the collateral damage she did not intend to make."</i>
</p><p>Everyone knows that there's something going on with Myka and H.G. But no one talks about it. </p><p>An exploration of their relationship, as seen from the POVs of Helena, Pete, and Myka.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Helena

**Author's Note:**

> Three-shot, keeping canon intact for S2, deviating a little for S3, and completely demolishing S4. Title quote taken from "Music when Soft Voices Die" by Shelley. ("And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, / Love itself shall slumber on.")
> 
> First chapter carries us from Helena's past--taking a few liberties about the whole bronzing process--through the first episode of season three.

> _  
> “You must understand—and every year it becomes increasingly difficult to understand—how entirely different the world was then from what it is now.”_ –H.G. Wells, **_In the Days of the Comet_**

There are few things in life one knows with certainty, but Helena G. Wells has always known more than a few things. She has known men and women and how to love them; mundane things that girls a century later are not required to learn, such as riding side-saddle or how to be passably proficient in almost every form of social entertainment. She has known things that, while commonplace in this modern world, did not have a name in hers. Helena has known space travel and genetics decades before they were put to practical use. Of course, the world has forever suffered because they were not put to use by her. Helena wonders quite often what she might have done with what she once knew.

Today, one hundred years too old to have any ties to anything or anyone, Helena knows only two things: wonder is not endless (though stories are), and she is afraid of the dark.

The second is the reason for the first, though a century with nothing but herself for company has warped her mind and muddied her thoughts, and perhaps it is actually the case that the expiration of wonder has caused an immutable and irrational fear. ( _Will wonders never cease_ , she thinks, and then she shakes her head because of course they will. They must.)

Wonders will cease because everything does. Raindrops cease and children cease and morals cease. The worst part about being bronzed isn’t that she’s cut off from the world. Helena is well-equipped to deal with isolation—she created enough of it the first time she was alive. However, despite all of her best efforts to thwart chronology, she is not prepared for eternity. Helena spends one hundred and three years waiting for the world to change, for science to change and for time to cease under the wonderful will of man.

She awakens to discover that the will of man is entirely the problem, that time has not changed, and that people have only gotten worse.

That first night, while MacPherson consolidates their plans, Helena finds herself reminiscing about her time in the bronzer. Out here in the world, once again given the freedoms of a corporeal form, she is subject to so much more risk than an eternity of solitude. Helena is trapped by people, by morals and opinions and foolish whims she could never think of predicting.

Helena misses the weight of words and their ability to transport her everywhere without chancing danger. She misses the dreams of Christina that were warm and happy, instead of the nightmares brought on by the false safety of a comfortable bed. She misses the countless novel ideas she imagined (and she firmly repeats to herself, once she is freed, that she does _not_ miss having a brother like Charles with whom she could share them.)

Stories are durable and dependable, and Helena has had a century to write all of them.

There is something to be said for that.

/

(There is also something to be said for being awake, she supposes. She has command of all ten fingers and toes; she can reach forward and feel something other than the cold scratch of metal; she could walk all the way to either coast if she wanted to.

Helena has full control of her own body for the first time in over a century, and no idea what to do with it.

Sleep continues to elude her.)

/

Helena never was one for much Austen, but it is a truth universally acknowledged that a writer, in possession of little more than her thoughts, must be in want of a muse.

There is so much inspiration to choose from. There are airplanes and computers; mobile phones, cars that can (theoretically) race for days without stopping. The internet—Helena could spend a lifetime learning about the internet and still never get to the bottom of it. The possibilities almost make her want to be a scientist again.

MacPherson guides her from the Warehouse under cover of a blanket. Helena hears a soft voice, whom she’ll come to recognize as Leena, advise him to keep her away from light for twenty four hours. It is a task easier said than done, she will realize later. There is always light somewhere in this world. After a century in bronze, that brings her more comfort than she ever thought one person could feel.

(In a year, she will long for the darkness again. In a year, she will be no closer to an answer for the question that has plagued her all her life: which is more painful, light or dark? Both leave scars too important to be erased.)

He puts her in a car. Helena remembers cars, though this is nothing like the sluggish, ungainly contraption of her time. Where there once was potential, now there is achievement. Cars have evolved and grown into the efficient machines they were always meant to be. Helena hopes, though she hasn’t hoped in a very long time, that people have followed the same pattern.

The room that MacPherson has arranged for her is small, sparsely decorated, and dark. Helena cannot see a thing, and perhaps it is because her heart hasn’t had to work for a while that it doesn’t beat straight out of her chest. But her anxiety rises and she catches MacPherson just before he leaves her alone, speaking her first words in over a hundred years.

“Bring me a candle, please,” she says, and she sounds nothing like what she remembers.

MacPherson returns with a candle and a considerable pile of papers, some of which she recognizes as her own notes from Warehouse 12. The others, she presumes, are his research, his plans, his dastardly schemes. She thanks him as he sets them on her desk, but she pays them no more attention after that.

Her voice does not sound the way it used to, and that could be from years of disuse. It could very well be from the fact that Helena has not heard sound in so long. Or perhaps, though she is loath to admit it, it could be that she has changed. And so Helena waits until MacPherson has left the room and then carries the flickering candle over to the mirror above her desk. Just as her voice betrayed her, Helena is afraid of what she might find peering back at her in the dim light, the air that crackles with shadows and wisps.

It takes her many moments to lift her head and face her own reflection.

When she does, Helena finds the same features that were there when she was bronzed, along with more than a few new worry lines and a fatigue she hadn’t dared show in her past life.

Christina is all over her face, and for that reason Helena turns away and peruses MacPherson’s plans.

He is a smart and resourceful man, but MacPherson is driven by revenge and fractured pride. He has no imagination, nor any goals beyond personal satisfaction. Helena familiarizes herself with his notes for twelve minutes before she decides to change them. He has cracked her research about the Trident, but has no idea where she’s hidden the other piece. She takes the time to compliment herself on not writing everything down. Helena will always take the time for worthy praise.

“We need to visit the Escher vault,” Helena says the next time she sees him.

“The Escher vault?” MacPherson replies, furrowing his brows. “We’ll never make it out alive.”

Helena smirks, relishing in the feeling of being the smartest person in the room. Of the many things she’s forgotten, this is one she’s glad to remember. “There are few problems for which I do not have a solution, Mr. MacPherson,” she smirks.

“You’re free to call me James, my dear.”

“Yes, I’m aware. I’m also aware that you know of my answer to the Escher obstacle, seeing as you failed to steal it—though I’m sure it was not for lack of effort, darling—some months ago. So I’m curious as to why you’re trying to deceive me right now. Do you intend to pry the necessary information from me and leave me to flounder in this world on my own?”

MacPherson smiles. His lips are pinched and rubbery, and the amusement Helena finds in them makes her cringe. “On the contrary; I had hoped you’d tell me where it is and I could retrieve it while you recuperated. It doesn’t take very long to get to London these days; I’d be back before you knew it.”

“There are, no doubt, Warehouse agents intent on your capture, yes?”

“And yours, I’d assume, once they discover I’ve freed you.”

“Yes, well, you cannot return to my house again. These agents will be there waiting for you in some manner or another. They will not be expecting me.”

MacPherson averts his eyes as he thinks. “Why do you need to visit the Escher vault?”

Helena grins, wider than she should considering the circumstances, and lies. “Your suspicions were correct.” She taps the bundle of papers she’d brought in with her. “The missing piece to the Trident is likely inside that vault, if that is truly where they keep the possessions of those the Warehouse bronzes.” MacPherson gazes at her quizzically. “The piece somewhat resembles a horseshoe, and among many other wonderful abilities, I was quite the capable equestrian in my day.”

“A genius, my dear. You are a genius.”

“Do you intend to use the Trident?”

MacPherson props his head on his fist, his attention returning to blueprints and strategies. “Only with the barest hint of resolution. The threat of using it will be enough for Arthur to surrender the Warehouse and all of its treasures, and then I’ll be rich. You’re welcome to share in the spoils, of course.”

His grin is lecherous and cold. It is one of the last times Helena will see him grin before she kills him. (She, of course, does not know that yet. She does know that she will kill him. But if she were to know that he would get the pleasure of a few more smiles, she would kill him sooner.)

For now, she simply nods and leaves him to his work.

There is more to contemplate, but she can save that for the flight to London. For now, she pores over encyclopedias and other reference books, learning about the century of advances she missed. She reads about airplanes and spaceships; wars and genocides; and always, always the ingenuity of man. There are more inventions than she’d ever contemplated, and it seems that as the years pass, they are used  less and less for altruistic purposes.

Helena reads about all of these things, but it is not the space travel or computers that fascinate her most. No, she was dreaming of those big, lofty goals over a century ago. She invented some of them. The tiny inventions, the ones modern people seem to take for granted, are the ones that boggle her mind. Machines that dry your clothes in less than an hour; phones that enable you to call anyone, anywhere, at any time of day. The concept of shampoo astounds her.

She finds no muses in rockets or cyberspace. Helena is an inventor. She is, and always will be, enamored with the people who find a need and fill it, who change the rules when longstanding rigidities result in less than favorable outcomes. Though she is one, Helena never felt a need to surround herself with great thinkers. She prefers the company of great doers.

Helena is on a path to meet one. She is very near to meeting her muse, and it will be her downfall.

/

There are so many things to see on her first airplane ride. Helena gets a window seat and intends to keep her gaze trained outside the whole time.

Instead, she sleeps.

She sleeps and dreams of nothing, something she hasn’t done in one hundred years.

She arrives at her former home and runs into the agents from the Warehouse, finding them to be as blustering and arrogant as she was when she worked a case.

MacPherson charters a private jet for the flight back to America, thereby allowing her to travel with the Imperceptor Vest without alerting nosy airport security.

Helena sleeps on this flight as well. This time, she dreams.

/

_The first time she tests her time machine, Helena stays for four hours. She has three and a half hours of bliss with Christina, and thirty minutes of terror. It is too much, almost, to even think of trying again. But Christina is a ghost when she awakens, and that causes a grief too acute to ignore._

_The second time, she is so unused to Sophie’s body that she cannot adequately execute her Kenpo moves. She returns to her time and makes notes, details Sophie’s weaknesses so that she can improve upon them in her next effort._

_The third time, Helena takes Wolly with her. He will inhabit the body of one of the thieves, she surmises, and she will recruit him to save Christina. By the end of twenty two hours and nineteen minutes, Helena is not good enough and Wolly is dead._

_She is beside herself when she returns. Wolly is silent. Caturanga flits between sympathy and rage, eventually deciding to bridge the two with rational tragedy. He gives her a night to say her goodbyes. She uses it, instead, to spin one more fantastical yarn for Charles. She paints him a picture of a world changed by a comet, one whose vapors cause a mass fainting spell and imbue the air with knowledge and peace. She tells him of the civilization that is created when everyone awakens, a civilization made of amity and understanding. “All the world needs,” she tells him, “is a great change and a good bit of rest.”_

_(She will discover a century later that he has gotten the sentiment mostly right.)_

_The next morning, the Regents present her with a list of possible punishment, the kindest of which is death. Helena does not deserve kindness._

_“Just bronze me, please,” she whispers, and they do, and she is cold for a very long time._

/

No one hears the words she whispers right before she cuts the string around MacPherson’s neck.

“I’m sorry, James, that our ignobilities did not correspond.”

She is doing the world a favor, ridding it of such a useless man. She is saving her life and the lives of the Warehouse agents, whether they realize it or not. MacPherson did not care for collateral damage. Helena chooses hers carefully.

Myka Bering will always be the collateral damage she did not intend to make.

/

The problem with killing James MacPherson, she finds, is that she is suddenly devoid a great deal of money. Helena’s plans are within her grasp and perfectly achievable, but they are not executable. It is not possible to fund an expedition on persuasion alone. Helena requires a bank account of preferably endless depths. It does not take her long to deduce where to find one.

The rest of her plan, however, is a bit troublesome. After running as far away as she could with the Imperceptor Vest, Helena spends many hours at a coffee shop near Lincoln, Nebraska. She reorganizes her notes on Warehouse 2, redraws the schematics for the structure. Helena Wells has an amazing mind; sometimes she impresses even herself.

“We’re closing in half an hour,” the barista says the next time he drops off a refill of tea. They don’t make it right in America, but Helena certainly isn’t going to drink what passes for coffee.

“Thank you,” she replies. The shop has emptied of most patrons; the only stragglers remaining are the day-drinkers trying to stave off alcohol dreams. “Carl? It was Carl, wasn’t it?”

Helena must have gotten his name right, because Carl smiles as he turns around, flicking a too-long strand of hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, it’s Carl. Can I help you with something?”

“Well, not with anything to do with tea or coffee, though I do have a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

Helena pauses, expecting him to continue, but he just looks at her and waits. “Oh, you wish for me to ask my question? Marvelous; I have so much catching up to do.” She smiles at his confusion. “I have a bit of an archaeological expedition planned, but I lack enough hands to fully help. If you needed laborers willing to work for a relatively inexpensive salary, but preferably ones with reasonable intellect, where would you look?”

“Grad students,” Carl scoffs.

“Grad students?”

“Yeah, you know, pretentious thinkers in pursuit of a degree that only acts as a status symbol? They’re insufferable, idealistic, and completely broke.”

“And where might I find these grad students?”

He shrugs and clears away her empty teacup. “Any university, really. There’s thousands of them all over.”

Helena smiles and means every bit of it. “Thank you, Carl.”

By the time she gets to Tamalpais University, she’s already found her students and secured their loyalty with a small down payment. But it doesn’t hurt to keep an open eye, especially when those eyes land on an intriguing set of women.

She lies, of course, when Agent Bering inquires about her motives. Helena has had no trouble tracking the Warehouse cases; she knows what kind of incidents to look out for. Countless artifacts have been created while she was bronzed, but humans still use them for personal gain, and the trouble that ensues will always look the same.

So she spins a smooth yarn about being on the hunt for Tappon’s medal, just as they are.

They’re Warehouse agents; they’re bound to hunt down the truth eventually.

/

 _You are going back to the Bronzer,_ Agent Bering says.

 _Why, what did I do_ , Helena retorts.

She means it. Agent Bering doesn’t understand.

/

Agent Bering becomes Myka after their next encounter. She is disarming, to say the least. Helena has prepared herself to give nothing away, to worm her way into the Warehouse without making any lasting connections. But Agent Bering is stubborn and will not budge without a proper answer, and so Helena talks about Christina and the locket, opens the door to painful future conversations. And Agent Bering listens without interruption, and when Helena is done talking, Myka is sympathetic. She does not relent, but she is sympathetic.

Helena has cracked them both.

/

Death surrounds them the next time they meet. Death comes for Arthur, the cantankerous old man who will not budge. Death has found Myka’s former colleague, come and gone and come again, lodging a piece of itself inside Myka. Death always leaves footsteps.

(Death follows Helena wherever she goes.)

This time, Helena is telling the truth when she says she’s tracking Torquemada’s chain. There are useful artifacts, and then there are artifacts that should not be out in the world. At the very least, if she does not make it into the Warehouse in person, she can leave it in a package at their residence. Helena has kept tabs on the bed and breakfast; she knows how to sneak in and out without being detected.

Helena is valuable to the agents, whether she works with their blessing or not. She is fairly certain that Myka and Claudia are convinced. It should be enough to welcome her back. It would have been, in the old days. A lot more was taken on faith, though it seems there was also a lot more faith to be given. People have grown far too suspicious for their own good.

Even Myka, smart, rational Myka, is infected.

“I’m gonna need more than, ‘She doesn’t like the world,’” she scoffs. “I need the truth. Why did they bronze you? What did you do that the Regents felt they had to encase you—”

“I asked to be Bronzed!” Helena finally yells. She is tired of the questions, tired of the memories, tired of being tired without any hope of sleep.

“You asked. Who in their right mind—”

“I wasn’t _in_ my right mind.” And she explains, in the barest language, about her daughter, how Christina destroyed her more than anyone ever could because she was so perfect to begin with. Helena had known happiness. She had known it so constantly and so deeply that to have it ripped away was like losing her grip on her soul. She spins a story sad enough in its truth that Myka will bend even further, and true enough in its sadness that Helena feels her conscience twisting.

“The Bronzer was your time machine,” Myka deduces.

“Closest I could come,” Helena admits, and Myka’s faint smile tells her that she’s in. Myka will fight for her.

Helena will fight back.

/

It is Myka’s approval she seeks when Mr. Kosan introduces her.

It is Myka’s approval she gets, without questions or conditions.

Helena tries so hard for so long to make it be enough.

/

“Agent Wells—”

“Please, Myka. To you, I am Helena. I could be something even more informal, if you were to ever guess my middle name.” Helena gestures for Myka to come into her room.

She does, smiling as she walks. “So it isn’t George, then?”

“I’m afraid not. Charles did pick out the stuffiest alias. I think he always was jealous of my boundless imagination.”

“Did you know? You know, that your stories would last, I mean.”

Helena inhales a breath and holds it, closing her notebook before answering. “I had a hunch, yes. Charles may have been frivolous and boring, but he always did have a way with words.”

“You didn’t write them?” Myka looks greatly disappointed, and Helena can’t help but laugh.

“What, imagining them isn’t enough?” Myka averts her eyes, smiling sheepishly. “No, I lent an editing eye, but I have always been too restless to fiddle around with words. I don’t fiddle with anything I can’t touch.”

For some reason, Myka blushes.

“Was there something you needed?” Helena continues.

Myka shakes her head. “Right, yeah, sorry. I, uh, I saw your light on and I thought, you know; it’s late, you’re awake…maybe you needed company, or someone to talk to—”

“I’m fine,” Helena interrupts, cutting off Myka’s rambling with a smile. “I’ve spent a century asleep; I don’t have much use for it now.”

“I thought you said you weren’t asleep,” Myka objects.

“Well, I certainly wasn’t awake,” Helena retorts. Her words have more bite than she intends, and she winces at how uncomfortable Myka seems. “I apologize, my dear. Perhaps you have it right, and I’m still feeling the effects of working off a hundred years of sleep. If Charles were alive, he’d tell you how horribly groggy and cranky I always was in the mornings. Perhaps this particular morning has simply lasted several months.”

Myka smiles. Her upper lip curls toward her nose. It is a lopsided smile—imperfect to some, though Helena has seen few truer. “Maybe it has. That still doesn’t preclude you having company.”

“Indeed, it does not.” She pats the space beside her on the bed. “If you are going to be my company, though, I insist you do so comfortably.”

Myka hesitates just a moment before kicking off her slippers. She climbs onto Helena’s bed with an unexpected grace for someone so tall. Helena takes an extended look over Myka’s body; she lets her gaze amble over slender toes and long legs and slim arms, before finally coming to rest on inquisitive, amused eyes.

“Ah, yes,” Helena coughs, before smirking. “Tell me, darling; which of my stories did you favor most?”

Myka laughs for a very long time.

She keeps Helena busy with words until the morning comes. They laugh and talk until the sun comes up, and even a little past that, though Myka’s feet start twitching around five thirty, eager to start the day. Myka tells her about the historical events that encyclopedias skirt around. She is Helena’s emotional conduit. Helena has always had better luck with emotions that are not her own. She can imagine the collective outrage with oppression, feel the global mourning of Princess Diana’s death. Helena is fascinated with the Berlin Wall, the proliferation of cults in the 1970s, the seemingly pointless conflict of the Cold War. The magnitude with which humanity can make mistakes continues to be the most interesting part of history.

(On an individual scale, however, Myka Bering is the most interesting woman Helena will ever meet.)

/

Retrospectively, Helena would extend the next few weeks indefinitely. They are somewhat of a golden period, if she doesn’t dwell on Arthur’s hostility (and he is considerably unpleasant, so she doesn’t.) Helena gets to know Myka extremely well. They are a dangerous combination—one astutely observant, the other incurably expressive.

(Myka thinks she’s observant as well, but the signals that Helena expresses, for the most part, are false clues.)

Helena learns that Myka twirls her hair when she is nervous; that she is nervous with more frequency than she should be; that she is exactly the kind of companion Helena was looking for in her past life. She is the perfect bridge between past and present, seeing the events of Helena’s world through a modern lens while still appreciating the nostalgia of antiquity. Myka invigorates Helena, energizes and makes her want to be human again.

It is so easy, you see, to become the bronze that surrounds you. Bronze is tough; it is durable and unforgiving, and in a world of steel and chrome, it is so easily overlooked and dismissed. But it takes a very determined fire to melt bronze.

Bronze does not easily corrode. It is harder than iron and conducts heat and electricity better than steel. And yet, presented with a suitable blunt object, bronze blades will dull all too quickly.

Myka dismantles with her rectitude. Helena is sharp, but not in the ways she wants to be. The longer she spends with Myka, the less lethal her sting becomes. Her words bite with amity; they are capable of little more than nips and nibbles.

Pete and Arthur regard her as if there were barbs protruding from every inch of her skin, but that is the kind of mortality Helena can only dream of.

She almost doesn’t care.

/

(It is Myka who discovers her true distaste for the dark. Every hour without the sun is a witching hour, and they weave only awful spells.

Myka finds her pacing one night, every lamp lit. It is almost three in the morning and Helena cannot let go of the locket at her breast. The lights cast a golden haze against the walls and it does nothing to soothe her galloping anxieties.

 _H.G., what is it_ , Myka asks. _Helena? Helena, what’s wrong?_

It is all Helena can do to extend a shaking hand and wait, as Myka grasps it, for the threat of tears to abate. There are still lines she cannot cross.

Every night following that first one, there is a knock at her door the minute the sun sets. Helena has never felt more relieved.)

/

Her nights can be terrors, but her days are truly wondrous. Arthur demotes her to inventory for most of them, still not trusting her enough to go out on missions. Helena spends a considerable amount of time with Leena and Claudia, organizing and shelving artifacts that do not always adhere to their instructions.

Leena is admirably friendly, engaging in polite conversation and curious inquiries. But Claudia is truly a rare creature. Helena, despite being many decades her senior, spends many hours under Claudia’s tutelage, learning everything she can about modern technology (and all of its shortcomings that Claudia finds and fixes.)

Claudia is the kind of person Helena always wanted Christina to be. Inquisitive, intelligent, and impulsive without being reckless. Helena spends hours contemplating whether this is simply Claudia’s character, or if she has passed so much time in the company of Pete and Myka that she has absorbed the best qualities of each of them. They are a seamless Warehouse team, stitched together tighter than she had been with Wolly, Caturanga, McShane and the others.

Helena surmises that they are closer because they are fewer. She is, at once, jealous of their bond and desperate to share it. Human connections are the most important things in this world—in any world, really. Helena has always loved her inventions and her stories, but she always cherished her friends most. Helena would go to extraordinary lengths to spare the people she loves undue pain.

(A century in bronze has mutated her principles, and she has become the cause of such pain.

Sometimes she feels remorseful about it.)

Time that Helena does not spend with Myka is spent with Claudia. Claudia teaches her about technology, science, films, and—most importantly—music. Helena enjoyed music in her time, though she studiously avoided it after Christina’s death. (It seemed barbaric to enjoy even the smallest of comforts when her favorite one was gone forever.) But now, she craves music. She yearns for the inexplicable, inimitable, unrelenting sadness of song.

Claudia gives her an iPod, of which Helena is immediately skeptical—it has been her experience that something so small must be in constant need of repair. But Claudia assures her that it will last, and she loads it with numerous composers. Helena revisits her favorites (Schumann’s _Kinderszenen_ Traumerei, Tchaikovsky’s Sixth), and puzzles over Mahler’s Ninth—it is music, Helena recognizes that, and yet it terrifies and paralyzes her.

She asks Claudia once, what the twentieth century did to music, because there is a clear progression of emotional attachment. The twentieth century, Helena supposes, must have inserted mankind with a hint of mania and the inability to adequately explain it. Everything feels so…present. At once relatable and foreign, intimate and detachable.

“Is all music like this?” she asks one day.

Claudia smiles as if Helena is missing a truth that everyone knows, and of course she is. “No,” she finally answers. “A lot of it sucks. But that’s why you have me, Claudia Donovan: Disc Jockey extraordinaire.”

Helena chuckles and stops Claudia before she can make another wasted reference. “No,” she corrects, “what I meant was, is all music today this painful?”

Claudia’s face falls. “Oh,” she stutters. “You want happy music? My tech-punk image would be totally destroyed if I admitted this, but I’ve got a wicked collection of Wham!’s greatest hits.”

Helena unplugs her iPod and hands it back to Claudia. “Whatever you listen to when you really want to feel something—I should think I’d like to listen to that.”

Claudia frowns. “But that’s all my sad stuff.”

“Alright.”

/

And so it is Claudia to whom she details the account of Christina’s murder. Myka is sympathetic and concerned and so very available when Helena needs to talk, but she is not tainted the way Claudia and Helena are.

Claudia comes back with an iPod full of Billie Holiday (whom Helena was surprised to learn was a woman); Johnny Cash; The Carpenters; The Smiths; Radiohead; and a wonderfully bizarre woman named Sinead O’Connor; and Helena is overcome with a wave of gratitude and a devastating desire to wrap Claudia in her arms.

Myka knows grief and loneliness, isolation and shame.

Claudia knows the dark.

Not as well as Helena, of course, for she still looks terrified when Helena confesses what happened to Christina’s killers. Helena has had a century to come to terms with the fact that she doesn’t have demons so much as she is one.

“H.G.?” Claudia ventures after a few tense moments of silence. “Can I ask you something?”

Helena raises her head and clears her throat, shaking out the last, lingering thoughts of Paris. “Yes, dear.”

“I mean, it’s totally cool if you don’t want to answer, but I was just curious—”

“You might want to ask whatever this question is before your lips part company with the rest of your face.”

Claudia laughs and shakes her head. “Right, well, I was thinking—you had the idea about Sophie before you started working on the time machine, right? I mean, you know, how she was you, or you were her, or whatever…but you came up with that before the time machine existed.”

“Yes,” Helena nods.

“Did you, um, and I don’t mean this to sound judgey or anything, but did you ever think of _not_ inventing the time machine?”

Helena stills her hands. “What?”

“Well, so your book _The Time Machine_. Or, well, your story and your brother’s book—but anyway, it was published a couple years before Christina…died, so did you ever think that maybe that would kind of happen to you? You know, that even if you did go back in time, it wouldn’t do anything because you’d already gone back in time and she still died.” Claudia takes a deep breath and studies Helena’s face. Helena makes sure not to look away. “So, theoretically, what would have happened if you came to the same conclusion about Sophie and made a conscious decision not to invent the time machine? And then you wouldn’t be Sophie and maybe things would have been different.”

Helena looks at Claudia for a moment longer before smiling to appease the poor girl. “I…that thought had honestly never crossed my mind,” Helena answers.

Claudia wrinkles her nose. “Really? But you’re H.G. Wells. You worked at Warehouse 12 and you think of everything.”

“Though we may be surrounded by absurdity, too often we are tricked into thinking our lives are incapable of being inherently absurd.”

“How long have you been waiting to use that one?” Claudia chuckles.

“One hundred years,” Helena answers.

Claudia’s face falls.

/

(It is a lie, either way. Of course the thought crossed Helena’s mind. She is Helena Wells and she does think of everything. It was an all-too tempting idea; Helena was completely prepared to step away from constructing her deus ex machina. The list of possible benefits was longer than the list of possible disadvantages—it seemed the only conclusive way to significantly alter the course of events.

And yet, the consequence of not building the time machine—though there was only one—was too powerful to ignore.

 _What if Christina died alone?_ )

When Pete and Myka return from the past, when Helena is sure they are safe and unharmed, she contacts the grad students before Christina can tell her not to.

/

“Hey.”

The night is quiet when Myka finds her. Pete and Claudia have holed themselves up in Pete’s room and are playing video games. Artie is playing his piano. Helena is trying to write, Myka is restless, and everyone is mourning Rebecca St. Clair.

“Hello, Myka.”

“Can I come in?”

Helena checks her watch. “It is well past nine and the sun set some time ago. I’d be greatly disappointed if you didn’t come in.”

“Right,” Myka smiles. She walks in and takes up her usual spot on Helena’s bed, leaning all the way against the headboard and crossing her legs. “Are you okay?”

“Of course, darling.”

“Helena,” Myka chides. “Claudia said you guys had a pretty intense conversation today.”

Helena feels her heart speed up, beating erratically as a hummingbird’s wings. “Did she?”

“I know that tone; don’t get ahead of yourself. She didn’t tell me anything, just that I might want to talk to you.”

Helena smiles and tugs Myka’s hand from her lap. “Time travel makes fools of us all, doesn’t it?”

“God, I hope not.”

“Do you feel good about this case, Myka?”

“I feel better.”

“Ah, diplomacy. I see I’ve made my point.”

Myka squeezes her hand and pushes it into her side, almost knocking Helena over. “Just because you say things with that fancy accent doesn’t mean you’re right.” Helena just waits. “I had a thought when Pete and I were in the 60s,” Myka continues. “But first I have a question for you.”

“Alright.”

“How many agents were there in Warehouse 12?”

Helena hums and leans her head back, remembering. “Well, we formed our little duos and trios, much like you have with Pete and Claudia, but there were more of us. I would wager that we had as many as fifteen at one point.”

“You must have bagged a lot of artifacts.”

“Darling, there were fifteen agents. That does not mean there were fifteen of me. Some of my cohorts were terrible buffoons.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a horrible ego?”

“Of course. That was frequently the only true thing people ever told me. That, or they took the time to chatter about how mad I was.”

“I don’t believe you’ve ever been mad, Helena.”

“I hope you never have cause to learn how truly wrong you are.” Helena clears her throat. “You said you had a thought.”

“Ah, yes, I did,” Myka stutters. “Well, it seems the sixties were kind of like Warehouse 12. You know, there were a lot more desks and a lot more agents, and it just…got me thinking. It would be nice to have all those minds to bounce things off of. I mean, god, the Warehouse recruits a special kind of agent. Can you imagine how many unique skills there would be between a team of a dozen instead of just four?”

Helena nods. “There were moments of remarkability, I seem to recall.”

“But then I kept thinking a little more,” Myka continues, “and I thought about how I kind of liked being part of such a small group. It makes you feel a little more…necessary.”

“And a little more culpable when something goes awry.”

“I know Artie and Pete give you grief sometimes—I mean, I know Artie hasn’t really stopped giving you grief since you came back—but…” She falls silent for so long that Helena is on the verge of wondering what kind of artifact has affected her. Myka takes a deep breath and looks up, watching with a fixed, determined gaze. She squeezes Helena’s hand once more, but this time she doesn’t stop. “I just wanted you to know that you’re needed, Helena. You’re needed so much by this team.”

 _And by me_ are the words that Helena hears, though Myka doesn’t give voice to them. Helena can see them written so clearly in Myka’s eyes, the same way they have been since Helena was reinstated. Helena has no delusions that Myka is alone in her affection; she is quite sure that a similar sentiment has been slowly seeping into her very character for the last few weeks. Helena needs Myka perhaps even more than Myka needs her.

Helena has been needed before. It is a glorious feeling, and she almost gives in to it. But the last time Helena was needed, Christina died.

So she steers the conversation back into safer waters, and hopes that a little more time will give her courage to stop being so foolish. “Myka, would it bother you terribly to stay with me tonight?”

Myka’s features morph from confession into concern. “Why, what’s wrong?”

 _Any number of things_ , Helena thinks. But Myka—wonderful, open Myka—deserves the truth. And so, for the first time in a very long time, Helena returns an honest question with an honest answer.

“In truth, I’m in the middle of a terrible bout of loneliness.” Helena attempts to laugh. It doesn’t resemble a laugh so much as a confused shudder. “I miss my daughter,” she says. It shouldn’t be a surprise to feel tears on her cheeks, but Helena has not cried in one hundred and three years.

She did not miss it.

“Of course I’ll stay,” Myka murmurs.

Helena wakes up the next morning curled around a body that feels so wonderfully unlike a small child’s.

/

When the ping comes that drags them to Egypt, Helena is fully prepared to turn herself in. She will travel to Warehouse 2 and stop it from killing Mrs. Frederic, and she will leave without procuring the Trident. And when Claudia discovers her money trail—because such an act is inevitable—Helena will admit to everything and allow the Regents to punish her accordingly. Helena is needed, and she has found her courage to surrender.

But there is never a good time and Myka is so worried. Helena knows that she will be hopelessly disappointed when the truth is revealed. If there is one aspect of this plan that Helena regrets, it is that she has hurt someone like Myka.

Helena falters after Valda’s death, but she has gotten through much tougher times. She can, to use a phrase that Pete and Claudia favor, suck it up and deal with the consequences.

Helena is not prepared for the Medusa. She is not prepared for the insidious cruelty of its torture. Helena would have gladly fallen to her death while under the spell of her hallucination. She would have died dreaming of Christina, instead of spending a century trapped in nightmares. It would have been a thing of poetry.

But Myka rips her from her daughter, and Helena can longer internalize her pain. She can no longer pretend that life is preferable to death. Life is pain. Life is loss. If the duty must fall to one person, Helena can shoulder that loss for the entire planet.

Helena grabs the Trident, after all. She fractures Myka instead of the caldera, and yet again, Helena fails to save anyone.

There is no word big enough to describe the relief she feels at being taken away by the Regents.

Helena has belonged to the Warehouse for far too long.

/

“It is an interesting predicament in which we find ourselves, Ms. Wells,” Mr. Kosan says as he leads her into a room. Helena appreciates how bright it is.

“I presume that is why I have not been returned to the Bronzer.”

“There are extenuating circumstances, yes.”

Helena sits across from Mr. Kosan. They are separated only by a table, which she finds interesting. “Aren’t you going to handcuff me? There are at least three ways I could incapacitate you without ever leaving this chair."

“We are not policemen, Ms. Wells.”

“But I am a criminal.”

Mr. Kosan smiles with more condescension than most people are capable of producing. “Handcuffs are not the only way of detaining someone. Surely you must give us more credit than that.”

“I think, if I had given the Regents any semblance of credit, we would not be sitting here right now.”

“This is not something to be taken lightly, Ms. Wells.”

“Why? What could possibly be so important that you have delayed my retribution?”

“The Warehouse has lost an agent,” Mrs. Frederic says from behind her. Helena starts violently in her chair; she hadn’t even heard the woman come in.

“Pete has gone after Kelly? I must say, that is a surprise,” Helena replies, once she has composed herself.

“Agent Lattimer is missing his partner.”

Helena sits up and loses any grain of confidence she might have had. “Myka’s gone?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Kosan, if you might give us a moment.” Mr. Kosan leaves, slipping out of the room with almost as little noise as Mrs. Frederic. The woman may be a guardian of the Warehouse, but sitting in Mr. Kosan’s vacant seat, she looks positively deadly.

Mrs. Frederic clasps her hands on the table. “You mean a great deal to Agent Bering,” she starts.

“She means a great deal more to me.”

“I don’t think so. I think you underestimate the admiration she has for you. I think you’d prefer it if she weren’t so fond of you.”

“Is this why I’m not being bronzed? So you can lecture me?”

“I need your help as much as you need a reality check. Ms. Wells, I am reality and I am not leaving until you accept your truth. The Warehouse will suffer greatly if Agent Bering does not return.”

“You are in the business of replacing agents, Mrs. Frederic. I should hope you don’t need me to do your job.”

“I think we are both aware that, as agents go, Myka Bering is unique.”

Helena searches Mrs. Frederic’s face for any political agenda. She finds only the traces of desperation.

“That is something upon which can agree, yes,” Helena concedes. “But I can’t—I can’t imagine I will be much help, after everything that has happened.”

“Not everything that has happened,” Mrs. Frederic corrects. “Everything that you have done.”

“Yes,” Helena whispers. “Everything that I have done. If you must know, not everything I’ve done was horrible.”

“And isn’t that the worst part? You made Myka believe, Helena.”

“Stop.”

“You allowed her to care about you. You nurtured her affection, and I believe you returned it wholeheartedly.”

“Please, Mrs. Frederic.”

“Claudia and I did a little more snooping on your bank accounts before you closed them. You had the requisite funds to pay the students long before you actually did. Why did you wait so long?”

Helena finds she cannot look the woman in the eye anymore.

“Ms. Wells?”

“I did not want to leave the Warehouse.”

“You must have known, when you were reinstated, that you would have to leave it eventually.”

“I admit, I was not prepared for it to make me feel so…safe.”

“The Warehouse is extremely dangerous.”

“Its agents aren’t.”

“Its agents are even worse.”

Helena clenches her jaw. Her mouth is set and angry, but her eyes are tired. She knows Mrs. Frederic can see nothing but the fatigue. “Not all of them,” she admits. “Myka will not want to see me.”

“Do you want to see her?”

“Yes.”

“Then she will endure.” Mrs. Frederic stands, sliding her chair noiselessly. “Mr. Kosan will be in to debrief you about your containment.”

“And then I’ll talk to Myka?”

“In time, Ms. Wells,” Mrs. Frederic answers, her hand on the door. “You and I are going to have several conversations first.”

/

Irene Frederic is a dangerous conversationalist. Helena wonders if she slides in and out of the Warehouse with silence to spare its agents her words, for she is too good at talking. She does not mince truths or allow Helena to avoid any humiliation. Mrs. Frederic is confrontational. She does not relent in revealing every one of Helena’s faults, even those that have nothing to do with Myka.

Helena asks her about it one day.

“Do you defend every Warehouse agent this fervently?”

“I defend the Warehouse against every personal attack until I am sure it is safe.”

“My attack was not a personal one.”

“I don’t think Myka would agree with that.”

“Pete would have eventually worn Myka down, I’m sure; bronzing me would be less painful than this conversation.”

“Rehabilitation is painful.”

“This is rehabilitation? I was under the impression this was punishment.”

“Not everyone deserves punishment.”

“In other words, I have not stopped being useful to the Warehouse.”

“True.” Mrs. Frederic adjusts herself in her chair and fiddles with her glasses. “I am going to be candid with you, Ms. Wells. I do not believe you should have been bronzed.”

“Clearly, as I’m sitting here with you.”

“I meant in 1906.”

“I asked to be bronzed.”

“And Caturanga had the opportunity to refuse that recourse.”

“The Regents gave me chances to change my behavior.”

“The Regents did not give you the right kind of chances.”

“And you think this new batch will?”

“I think someone will, if you let her.”

/

Three weeks later, Helena finds herself in Colorado Springs.

It is a wonderful fall day, by all accounts. The sun is not hidden by clouds and people smile at it in the streets. Helena can walk among them and she can almost pretend that she is one of them. But she cannot feel the sun or the breeze; she cannot open a door or sit down on a bench.

She cannot rely on anything but words to convince Myka that she is needed.

It is a gift.

Helena wanders around the bookstore, wanting desperately to inspect every book she comes across. There are some titles she recognizes and far more that she doesn’t. Those are the ones that make her fingers itch to be anything other than transparent.

But there are more important things in this shop than books, and they are glaring at her, angry and hurt.

“Hello, Myka,” she says.

Myka has spent three months hiding away from her truth. Helena has spent three months confronting hers.

It is time they learned from each other once again.


	2. Pete

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon through 3x12, rewriting 4x01 and onward because I have a lot of Pete feelings.

> _"One of the darkest evils of our world is surely the unteachable wildness of the Good."_ \--H.G. Wells, **_A Modern Utopia_**

There are things they don’t talk about. In the beginning, Myka doesn’t really want to share anything. Which is cool with Pete, mostly; people have stuff they like to keep close to the chest. For him, it’s the drinking. He goes to a lot of meetings those first few months that Myka doesn’t know anything about.

Sometimes the Warehouse makes him _really_ want to drink.

But Claudia shows up and Artie evolves from a grumpy tool into just grumpy, and Myka learns to trust him. She learns to like him, which he always knew was coming because the only people who don’t like Pete are the ones who don’t know him.

It’s actually kind of cool, because Myka really does learn from him. There are things he knows that she doesn’t. There is a _language_ that he knows that she doesn’t, and when he gets to know her better, he’ll really be impressed with himself. If Myka watched Star Trek, she would totally know Klingon, so it’s kind of a miracle that Pete’s the one to teach her ASL. It’s a nice bonding time, too; sometimes Pete just wants to talk about growing up with a deaf sister to somebody who doesn’t know anything, because there’s nothing he can’t say. (The crushing, infuriating, and totally unfair frustration he used to feel with Jeannie is one of those things Pete and his mom don’t talk about.)

So they talk once in a while. Claudia helps with that. Maybe Myka is closed off sometimes, but she isn’t cold. She has a lot of affection; she just doesn’t trust a lot of people with it. Myka trusts Claudia almost immediately. There are mornings where Pete catches them geeking out about some science thing, because even though Myka’s not a techie, she’s still a nerd.

The first time Pete found them, it was an accident. It was 8:30 on a Saturday and he was only up because he really had to take a leak. (Pete has a strict rule against getting up in the single digits on the weekend. But the bladder situation was pretty critical.) They were in the sunroom, with blueprints and charts spread out all over the floor, and just talking to each other like the world was going to end if they didn’t make the right decision.

_“No, look, just visualize it, Claud—“_

_“Okay, whatever crazy 3D rendering capacity your brain works at, mine doesn’t. Gimme code, great. But I cannot flip shapes in my mind.”_

_“No, come on, you’re a genius. You can get this. If you want to put biometric locks on the Teslas, you need to outsmart the people who are going to try and break in.”_

_“So basically I need to outsmart me. I gotta tell you, Myka, that is one tall order.”_

_“So let me make it shorter. How would you beat a fingerprint scanner?”_

_“I would grab a digital copy of someone’s print and put it on a cast of a thumb.”_

_“Right. So that’s good enough for most biometric locks.”_

_“But not a Claudia Donovan-ensured biometric lock.”_

_“Exactly. Okay, so when you print someone, it’s a reversal of their actual fingerprint, right?”_

_“Like when you put your hand on a mirror. Oh man, do you think your prints are on the inside of Lewis Carroll’s mirror?”_

_“Probably.”_

_“Sorry.”_

_“It’s okay. So let’s say I wanted to use your Tesla. I’d make a cast of your print, but it wouldn’t match. Because I would grab it from the digital file of your prints, which is already a reversal of your actual fingerprint.”_

_“So it’s a reversal…of a reversal.”_

_“Yes!”_

_“But if you’re backwards and you turn backwards again, isn’t that just going forwards? So wouldn’t it match anyway?”_

_“No, because the print you’re feeding into the lock is just the one reversal.”_

_“This must be what Pete feels like when I try to talk computers to him.”_

_“Here, give me that big piece of paper; I’ll draw it.”_

It’s kind of Pete’s fault that they never got those biometric locks because the fingerprints Myka drew looked like mutated tennis rackets, and there was no way he wasn’t going to laugh at that. The ensuing chase from both Myka and Claudia went all the way into the garden and didn’t end until Leena yelled at all of them. But it was all worth it, because when Myka talks to Claudia, she smiles like she’s finally playing big sister to someone who wants one.

So they don’t have fingerprint locks on their Teslas. They have talks, and that’s way cooler.

But the thing that Pete’s learned about people and life is that there’s always a tipping point. He’s been close to it a few times, because it’s so easy to drink your way off a cliff. Pete hasn’t found his tipping point yet, but Myka’s is waiting for her in Yellowstone.

H.G. Wells is one of those things they don’t talk about.

They should have.

/

There is a really tiny part of him, though, that doesn’t feel guilty because nobody talks about it with Myka. Hell, he’s pretty sure H.G. doesn’t even talk about it with her. But everyone— _everyone_ —knows about it. Artie can barely stand to be in the same room with both of them. Claudia throws a huge wink at Pete when Myka says that she and H.G. are going to get coffee. It’s the same way she winks at Myka when Pete and Kelly _get coffee_ , because they haven’t actually gotten coffee together in weeks. Pete’s positive Myka and H.G. aren’t really doing the nasty, but they look at each other like they want to.

(But they work for the Warehouse and that’s already full of enough uncertainty without wading through weird personal waters.

Pete and Myka learn the hard way what happens when a Warehouse agent tries to outsmart time.

It’s a loss like you never thought you could lose.)

He only alludes to it once, when Myka and H.G. have gone on a walk together and Claudia can’t stop smiling. She almost squeals and Pete has to pry.

“What?”

“Those two…” Claudia gestures in the direction Myka and H.G. just went. Pete shakes his head, waiting for her to continue. “Dude, don’t tell me you don’t see it.”

Pete is about to protest with an _Of course I see it; how could I miss those big googly-eyes_ , but sometimes it is crucial to actually think about what he says before he says it, and this is one of those times.

“Just—let them be for a while, Claud.”

“No fair,” Claudia whines. “I need to make fun of someone other than you and Kelly.”

“Hey, Mykes and H.G. are totally _not_ me and Kelly. They only wish they were as good-looking as we are.”

Claudia punches his shoulder and Pete thinks she’s been spending too much time with Myka.

Pete tells himself that he’ll talk to Myka when they get back from Egypt and he doesn’t have to worry about the possibility of indirectly killing Mrs. Frederic anymore. There are only so many terrifying thoughts he can handle at the same time.

Of course, as soon as he thinks that, the Warehouse proves him wrong and throws him one more.

/

(When Myka asks Pete if he had any vibes, he says no and he isn’t lying. Sure, he had doubts when H.G. had a gun to him or when she Bogarted all of their artifacts on the Russia case instead of asking, like any normal person would—but she saved Artie, the Regents reinstated her, and most importantly, Myka trusted her. So Pete was sold.

He wanted so bad for H.G. to be good, because she was good for Myka. Everyone at the Warehouse is connected, but H.G and Myka are connected in a way that is uniquely their own. H.G. is someone Myka can have all to herself, like Pete has Kelly or Claudia has Josh. Everybody needs that one person.

Myka needs H.G. so badly that she disintegrates when H.G. stops needing her back.

Pete’s spent so much time trusting Myka that he forgot how to trust himself.

It’s a long couple of months.)

/

“Do you think you’ll ever forgive her?”

(It’s four days before they talk about it at all.)

“Why would I? We’re not gonna see her ever again.”

Claudia stills, the artifact in her hand halfway to its intended shelf. “You don’t think she’s coming back?”

“No way, man; you saw how the Regents hauled her ass out of here—”

“No, I’m not talking about H.G., dude. I mean Myka.”

“Oh.” Pete checks something off of one of Artie’s ridiculous checklists. “Yeah, I’ll forgive her. Of course I will. It’s Mykes.”

“You will?”

“I already have,” Pete mutters. He looks up from inventory he really doesn’t want to be doing. “Why, are you…are you not gonna?”

“No, what?” Claudia scoffs. “I totally will. I mean, you know, like you said. It’s Myka.”

“Right.”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes look a little too wet to make her words believable. Pete could say something, but he’s always done better with this kind of feelings stuff when he’s got something else to distract him.

“Feel like a little Mario Kart tourney tonight?”

Claudia clears her throat before answering. “What are the stakes?”

“Same as always, loser doesn’t get to eat breakfast.”

“That’s boring.”

“I have it on good authority that Leena’s making chocolate chip pancakes.”

Claudia gasps. “Lattimer, you walk on the wild side!”

“So, you in?”

“Your ass is mine.”

/

Three hours in, Pete throws his controller down in frustration, just like he does every time.

He flops back on the floor dramatically, letting his arms fall across his eyes. “This is bullshit, man; why do you always beat me?”

“I dunno, why do you keep asking me to play when you suck so much?”

“I do not suck that much.”

“No, you suck more.”

“Well, I just love spending time with you.”

“You’re not eating those pancakes. I already told Leena you can’t have any.”

“Okay, who sucks now?” Pete whines as he pushes Claudia in the shoulder.

“Hey, you can either stay and lose or leave and lose. But either way you lose.”

Pete hears Claudia drop her controller. She stays knocked over from when he pushed her, back flat on the floor but knees still bent.

“Hey, Claud? You know I’m staying, right?”

“Darn; I would have had more bragging rights if you’d left.”

“No, I meant—”

“Yeah, I know what you meant.”

“Okay. Do you believe me?” Claudia doesn’t say anything, so Pete props himself up on his elbows and looks across the floor at her. “Hey. You know, you don’t have a monopoly on people leaving you.”

“Dude. Dead parents. Twelve-year interdimensional-limbo-trapped brother. Freakin’ _psych_ ward.”

“ _Dude_ ,” Pete counters. “Dead dad. Busy mom. Deaf sister. Freakin’…Myka.”

“Okay, well if you’re including your sister I get to include H.G.”

“It’s not a game, Claudia.”

“I mean, you don’t even like H.G. anyway.”

“I do, too!” Pete protests. “I mean, well, I did. H.G. Wells is the reason we have monster movies, okay, and I got to talk to her. It’s like if you got the chance to pal around with Einstein or something.  But then, you know, she turned into the world’s biggest asshole and really hurt someone I love. So I don’t think I can like her anymore.”

Claudia kicks his knee. “Someone you _loooove_ , huh?” she teases.

Pete kicks back. “First of all: _gross_ , no. Second of all: there was H.G.”

“Do you think they ever…?”

“No,” Pete shakes his head. “I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”

“Better for them,” Claudia answers, “worse for me.”

“You’re such a weird little fangirl sometimes.”

“Oh, okay there, Mr. Iron Shadow. Where are your purple undies?”

“ _Trunks._ ”

“Right.”

“Shut up.”

Pete has learned a thing or two about Claudia ever since she came to the Warehouse. For as curious as she is, she doesn’t like to touch gross stuff. She will put onions on just about anything. She always, always has something to say. So when she gets quiet, she’s usually just waiting for someone else to fill the silence.

“Sleep in here tonight,” he suggests. “Grab that fancy air mattress of yours and we’ll go full middle school.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means you grab the chocolate milk, I’ll pop some popcorn, and we’ll stay up late watching creature features, painting our nails, and talking about boys until we pass out.”

/

Claudia is already gone by the time Pete wakes up, but there’s a plate waiting for him outside his door, covered with a giant pot lid. Pete picks up the note that’s attached.

_Hey loser—_

_Left you some pancakes after all. Leena’s in the garden and I bet Artie still hasn’t left the Warehouse. I went for a drive; see you tonight._

Pete uncovers the plate. Claudia has neatly stacked a box of pancake mix, a cup of water, and a bag of chocolate chips.

She’s such a little brat sometimes.

/

They get into a routine as the weeks turn into months. Pete has to adjust to working cases with just Claudia—because she’s littler and gets thrown around a lot more—but it’s okay. It’s nice, for once, to have someone actually understand and laugh at the references he throws out, instead of just laughing because he’s Pete.

They work without Myka—not well, but they work. Artie sleeps even less. Pete and Claudia try and figure out how to play off each other. Sometimes even Leena goes on missions when there’s just too much to do. It’s weird, it’s wrong, and it makes him angry. But that’s what the Warehouse feels like without Myka, and Pete would totally prefer to feel it rather than fail to fix it.

(Because they failed for weeks. Myka wasn’t hard to track down; where else would she go but back home? Pete called her a lot, emailed her every day. Claudia was the one to actually fly out and talk to her. She was so sure she could convince Myka to come back. Pete knew she couldn’t. It’s why he didn’t go with her.)

So Myka’s gone and it sucks, but that’s how it goes—life sucks sometimes, and you just gotta man up and let it happen. But Artie comes back from Atlantic City with a shiny new agent, and that does not jive with any of Pete’s plans. How is he supposed to work on getting Myka back when they’re already replacing her? And it’s not like you can replace Myka anyway; they’re all irreplaceable.

The more Pete thinks about it, the more he realizes that Mrs. Frederic and the Regents are scared of playing the waiting game.

Given where they work, it’s a really bad idea to tempt fate.

(Fate is a dirty little bitch.)

/

The first day Myka comes back, she stays at the Warehouse a lot longer than everyone else, even Artie. Claudia tries to tempt her with promises of talking about _The Once and Future King_ —because she finally read it even though it took her almost a month to get past the boring part about the ants—but Myka doesn’t budge. Artie tells her she doesn’t need to work that hard right away. Leena stops by and drops anvil-sized hints about the delicious pot of Myka’s favorite tea she just brewed. Steve and Pete are the only ones who don’t say anything—Steve, because he has nothing to say, and Pete, because he has too much.

But he’s Pete, and that means he’s persistent in a frustratingly adorable way, so he’s waiting for in her room when she finally does come home.

She jumps about a thousand feet in the air when she turns on the light and sees him parked on her bed. A lot of what he’s missed about Myka has to do with how jittery she can be.

“Hey.”

“Jeez, Pete!”

“Jumpy much?”

“ _Skulk_ much?”

“You know I can’t resist a good jump scare. _Paranormal Activity’s_ got nothing on Pete Lattimer.”

Myka finally stops looking annoyed and smiles a little. “I guess I’ll just have to get used to having an interesting life again."

“You know I’ll keep you on your toes.”

Myka sets her bag on her desk. “I thought you said we didn’t need to talk.” She twists a strand of her hair like she expects him to talk anyway.

“We don’t. I just, you know, wanna make sure you’re okay.”

“You mean you want to know why I finally decided to come back.”

“I am _dying_ , Mykes.”

Myka smiles and slides next to him on the bed. “Pete, can we talk about it tomorrow? I’m a little tired.”

“Riiight, because _someone_ spent way longer at the Warehouse than they needed to.”

“Pete.”

“I’m just saying, if you think you can out-wait me, you’ve got another thing coming. I wasn’t the reigning 5th grade Kick the Can champ because I went for the can every time.”

“Pete.”

“And, you know, mostly I just really missed my best friend.”

“I promise, I’ll tell you everything in the morning.”

“You know, I might think you’re trying to purposely avoid me if you keep deflecting like that.”

“I’m not trying to avoid you, Pete.”

“So why won’t you tell me why you came back?”

“Because you might not like it.”

“You’re back. I like it already.”

Myka sighs and brings a hand up to twist her hair again. Pete misses the curls. “Mrs. Frederic came to see me after you and Steve left.”

“Mrs. _Frederic_ was the one to get you to come back?”

“No, she—she had someone with her, okay, and I didn’t want to listen to her but I didn’t really have a choice and she just—”

“Mykes, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Look, Pete, just don’t freak out, okay? And please don’t take it personally.”

“You got it.”

“It wasn’t Mrs. Frederic that got me to come back, it was H.G.”

"What?”

“Well, technically the hologram version of H.G. but—”

“You talked to H.G. Wells and you didn’t shoot her?!”

“Pete, you said you weren’t going to freak out…”

“Kelly almost killed me because of that woman, Myka! Why the hell would you listen to anything she has to say?”

“I didn’t want to, but Mrs. Frederic turned her on and kind of just left her there—”

“She tried to end the whole freakin’ world; that doesn’t mean she gets a chance to explain herself—”

“—and then, god I was so mad, but she had these things to say and they were kind of good things even if she isn’t—”

“—not to mention that she shot Artie and she had a _gun to your head_ , Myka, okay; she almost killed you—”

“—I mean, what kind of a person would I be if I didn’t at least listen to what she had to say, because we’ve all done stuff we regret—”

“—I know you guys were pals and everything, but sometimes you just have to let someone go, Mykes—”

“—you said you weren’t going to take this personally, Pete…”

“How could I _not_ take this personally, Myka! We’ve been partners for two years. I try for months to get you to come back, which I thought would be a piece of cake because we’re a team; but no, Crazypants McGee swoops in for a whole thirty seconds and does the best friend thing better than me—”

“Pete, I don’t think she’s better than you—”

“Hey, crazy kids! Scream any louder and the whole E! network will come sniffing for a new reality show.”

Pete and Myka turn toward Claudia. Myka is embarrassed. Pete is pretty sure his face looks like a tomato on steroids.

“Sorry, Claud,” Myka mumbles. “We, um, we were just—”

“I was just leaving,” Pete interrupts. “How do you feel about some _Call of Duty_?”

Claudia flits her gaze in between Pete and Myka. “It’s, uh, well it’s more morning than night, so maybe tom—”

He hooks a finger into one of Claudia’s belt loops on his way out the door and drags her with him.  “I really need to shoot something.”

“Okay.”

/

Claudia makes him go back and apologize when she finally shuts off their game. It’s almost four in the morning and Myka will wake up in, like, an hour anyway, but Claudia is kind of starting to look like Artie and Artie has a crazy stern face, so Pete complies.

He shakes her awake and doesn’t say anything when she pushes her hand groggily into his face.

“Pete, it’s so late I can’t even see my fingers…”

“No, hey, Mykes, I just wanted to say I was sorry for yelling earlier. If you want to be friends with a holographic psycho, that’s okay with me.”

“That’s not really an apology, Pete.”

“It’s a Pete-pology.”

“Okay.”

“And it’s basically as much as you’re gonna get.”

“I figured. Can I go back to bed now?”

“We can talk about H.G. for real, if you want…”

“Can you hear me snoring? Because I’m snoring, Pete.”

“Okay.”

/

He’s fine with it. Pete’s totally fine with everything now that he’s gotten his anger out of the way. Myka keeps trying to talk to him because she thinks he’s not fine, but he’s really fine. Pete’s a big boy; he can swallow his lumps and get over Myka leaving him because she came back. She came back physically, she came back emotionally, and they’re Pete and Myka again. All is right with the world.

Except all is _not_ right with the world because H.G. shows up again and Myka is positively over the moon about it. It’s the kind of thing he would have teased her about a few months ago. He would have snarked until he ran out of material, and then he would have turned it over to Claudia because that girl’s brain never stops.

But he doesn’t do that now because H.G. is in the Warehouse again and Myka is looking at her like all she can think about is how H.G. brought her back, instead of remembering that she also made her leave.

So Pete makes the case terrible for them both because he spent the whole time Myka was away being sad, and then he was a little hurt when she came back and it wasn’t because of him, and now H.G.’s here and he’s angry. Pete is angry. He’s angry that H.G. exists, in whatever form; he’s angry that she’s let all of them down so many times; and he’s angry that Myka is so willing to forgive her. He’s so angry that he spends the case insulting her and throwing things at her and wishing Artie were here because maybe he’d be down for instating a point system (one for the torso, two for a limb, three for her head, and bonus points for every extremity.)

Pete comes up with every way he can think of to punish her. When he turns her back on in Daniel Varley’s lab, Myka yells at him. She yells because it’s a shitty thing to do, letting H.G. take the heat when they’re all in danger of dying anyway. And it is shitty. He means to be shitty. Pete Lattimer is not a shitty person, but sometimes he can commit deeds of utter shittiness. And H.G. has dragged all of them through so much shit that, for once, Pete wants to make sure she smells like it, too.

Instead, H.G. acts upon grace he wishes she’d have shown back in Yellowstone, and completely saves the day. Pete feels like someone’s just made him eat a crap sandwich.

(He’ll look back later and realize that this was it. This was the moment H.G. started to become Helena. Myka was in love with her, H.G. Wells or not, but Helena was someone Pete could be friends with.

In the wake of everything, he wishes he’d started being friendly earlier.)

They bag the trumpet, like they always do, and Pete watches as H.G. and Myka exchange longing looks and weighty words.  He wishes he could make at least one thing better—give H.G. her body back or something; hell, he’d even pull a _Ghost_ and let H.G. take him for a spin if he thought it might give Myka a little bit of closure. Because that’s the rough part of all this, right? If he argues with Myka, he can always reassure her later with a hug or by letting her punch him a little more than usual. But even when H.G. and Myka are both reaching out, they can never touch.

So he zaps H.G. back into her pokeball and he doesn’t let Myka run away like he knows she wants to.

“Mykes, hey.”

“Pete, please don’t—”

“No, this is good, I promise.” He sighs as Myka crosses her arms. “I don’t—I don’t like H.G.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“I don’t like her because I used to like her. And she was all cool and historical, and then she ruined you. And if you’re ruined, then I’m ruined. So I double-dipped into the not-liking-her pool. But,” he sighs again, “you’re back and she’s a part of the reason why, and I’m thinking that if she’s pulling you out of the ruins, maybe—maybe I could follow your lead again. So I don’t like her now. But things change. Okay?”

Myka smiles and slips her arm through his. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Pete.”

“No problem. And, you know, I know you have more feelings about all this, so if you really want to get everything out—”

“Don’t push your luck, Lattimer.”

“Roger that.”

/

Pete pushes anyway, because he’s Pete, and Myka lets him push back after all the stuff with Leo. Actually, she doesn’t really let him, she just stops not-letting him.

It gets to him like he isn’t prepared for, when she says she could never recover from losing another partner. Sure, he figured they’d always go out together because he’s pretty sure neither of them are going to stop being Warehouse agents until they’re forced to. They’re devoted to each other because they’re partners and they work at the Warehouse, and when you see weird shit every day, you get weirdly attached. But he never really thought about Myka being _that_ attached.

He wonders about it; if he’s enough to make her leave the Warehouse for real or if she’d just sink back into her pre-Warehouse persona. He wonders if he’s the only she’d have this reaction for—or if she lost Claudia or Leena or Artie, would she be just as devastated?

He answers himself a moment later. There is someone else who can devastate Myka more than anyone, and that is why they need to talk. Pete won’t let Myka be devastated because he will make sure he’s there to help her recover.

“Hey, Mykes, let’s go get some pie,” he says when they all break after dinner.

“I don’t eat pie.”

“So get a burger; it’s a diner. I want pie.”

She looks at him for a moment before closing her book. “Okay. Do you want me to grab anyone else?”

“Nope, just you and me tonight. Let’s go.” He claps his hands together and jogs out the door, psyching himself up for what will probably be a really uncomfortable discussion.

“Are you feeling alright?” Myka asks as they get in the car. “Because I don’t think you really need more sugar.”

“I’m good; I’m cool. You should think about maybe getting a slice. Take a step out of your comfort zone.”

“Pete, eating pie is pretty safely inside my comfort zone.”

“I’m just saying, they have a really good key lime.”

“Do you ever stop thinking about food?”

Pete doesn’t answer. He does, however, spend the rest of the drive thinking about pie, which is why he doesn’t answer.

The diner is quiet. It’s almost midnight, so the dinner crowd has fizzled out and it isn’t late enough yet to get the post-drinking-munchies crowd. Pete is pretty sure graveyard shifts at a twenty-four-hour diner might be the most boring things ever.

He orders two slices of pie even though Myka says she doesn’t want any. She’ll end up eating off of his plate by the time the night’s over.

“So what, did you just get a massive craving? Don’t you have those all the time?”

Pete takes a sip of water and smiles. “Nah, I just wanted to get away from the Warehouse for a little.”

“You love the Warehouse.”

“Yeah, but…Mykes, can I ask you something?”

Myka sighs as the waitress brings their pie over. “I don’t want to talk about Sam, okay, Pete? I’m really, really over it right now. Closure, peace—whatever you want to call it, I’ve got it.”

“No, I don’t want to talk about Sam either.” He shakes his head. “I wanna talk about H.G.”

“Pete…”

“No, listen. I—I know, okay? I mean, I don’t, but I think I’ve got a pretty good idea. And it bugged me the whole time that you were gone. Maybe I could have just made you stay a little bit longer, helped you get your head a little bit more in order, if we’d just talked about everything. ‘Cause I have this vibe that something big is about to go down, and I don’t want you to run away again.”

Myka looks at the table for a long time before grabbing her fork and spearing a really big chunk of his pie. “I’m not gonna run away, Pete. I wouldn’t do that to you guys again.”

“I know. But would you do it to you?”

“What does this have to do with Helena?”

“You know how your neck gets really long when you’re mad at me, or it pulls to the right when you’re mad at Artie, or I know how you say you don’t get mad at Claudia, but when you get frustrated with her you get this crazy scary mom face.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Any time you talk about H.G., even if it’s something sad, you get all smiley in your eyes.”

“I’m eating all of your pie.”

“You get twinkly and girly.”

“So?”

He pulls the plate of pie away from her before she can take another bite. “So that’s how you looked right before Yellowstone. Right before she broke your heart. And I gotta tell you, Mykes, if there’s anything I can do to make that not happen again, I’m gonna do it.”

“Is this your way of telling me I can’t date Helena?”

“No, but oh, my god, am I allowed to do that? Can I give her the scary big brother talk, because I’ve never gotten to do that before.”

“Use it on Claudia.”

“Except I don’t know where Todd is and he’s probably guarded by twenty snipers anyway.”

Myka leans back into the booth and puts down her fork. “What did you want to say, Pete?”

He wipes his mouth. “I dunno, that was pretty much it, I guess. I just want you to know that if you ever feel like running again, you’ve at least got someone who wants to run with you. And I know you guys have this crazy big end-of-the-world kind of love going on—like, literally—but if she shits all over you again, I’m here for that, too.”

She smiles and looks down, wiping away a couple tears. Pete pretends not to notice. “Thanks, Pete.”

“And hey, I totally get it, too. H.G. is hot stuff.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Did you guys ever, you know, talk about it?”

Myka shakes her head. She still won’t look up. “No. But she knows.”

“Yeah, she’d be blind not to.” He takes another bite of his pie. Myka has already finished off the other slice. “Maybe we could nick her sphere from Mrs. Frederic.”

Myka laughs, finally. “I’d be willing to be that they’ve got that thing locked up somewhere far safer than Mrs. Frederic’s clutches. One of the Regents probably has it.”

“We could persuade a Regent. I’m charming.”

“Sure.”

“I’m just saying, given infinite time I could charm the pants off of everyone on the planet.”

“Given infinite time, a pack of monkeys could write every book ever written.”

“So?”

“So it’s not saying much.”

/

The problem, he soon finds out, is that he’s been unknowingly charming a Regent his entire life, and when she and H.G. are within feet of each other, he forgets to ask his mom to explain everything. Because it isn’t fair, it wasn’t right, and pretty much everyone deserves an apology.

Everyone is whole and happy for one second.

And then everything explodes.

/

The look on Myka’s face when the Warehouse is gone is everything Pete never wanted to see. He wishes he could just take a moment and stop time, remove everything from the world that isn’t him and Myka, and then he’d hug her until she stopped looking so sad.

But then he thinks that maybe she’d still be sad anyway, so he goes along with Artie’s plan to get the Warehouse back.

They mourn Mrs. Frederic and Steve, grab Claudia, and fly to France. And success seems so impossible, but Pete will make it possible for Myka. He has to.

Claudia gets arrested in Italy because she’s angry and resolute and too much of a punk to stay away from any kind of riot. Myka tries to stay back and help her but there’s no time. There’s no time for anyone if they want to rewrite it, so they keep going and break into the Vatican. They find the astrolabe and it’s a sad kind of relief, and then everything bad that could ever happen happens at once.

Brother Adrian busts them and goes straight for Myka, and there are other brothers with him or else Pete would take him down real fast. By the time Pete and Artie get rid of the brothers bugging them, it’s too late. Myka’s got the astrolabe and Brother Adrian’s on the floor, and Pete is smiling before he notices that Myka’s hand at her stomach is really, really red.

“Jesus, Mykes!” He catches her as she collapses. She doesn’t make any effort to protect herself against the concrete.

“Always thought we’d go down together,” she wheezes.

“Gimme a knife and I can make that happen,” he jokes. Mostly joking. “You promised me next time, remember?”

“Well, use that astrolabe and I bet I can keep my promise.” Her breath catches and Pete notices that her fingers are shaking really badly. “See you yesterday.”

“Say hi to H.G. for me.”

“You won’t remember.”

“Say hi anyway.”

Pete kisses her forehead as she closes her eyes. He gets up quickly and turns to Artie. There are some things he just never wants to see in any reality.

If they weren’t crunched for time, Pete would break every stained glass window in this crappy place and go bury his face in a giant bottle of rum.

He roughly wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “This is gonna work, right?”

“It, uh, it should,” Artie stutters.

“Do we know how to stop Sykes?”

Artie jiggles the Farnsworth. “Leena said Gandhi’s dhoti should do the trick.”

“Great. Let’s do it.” He reaches out for the astrolabe but Artie backs away. “What gives, Artie?”

“We can’t both use it, Pete. If something happens and it doesn’t work, you have to go back to the Warehouse and try to fix things.”

“Nothing’s gonna matter if it doesn’t work; don’t you get it, man? I’ve lost everyone if this doesn’t work. Claudia’s in Italian jail, Mrs. Frederic is dead, Steve is dead, H.G. is dead, Myka got _stabbed_ ; you don’t—you don’t get to tell me I have to live in a world without Myka. So tough nuts, Artie, I’m not going anywhere.” Pete grabs onto the astrolabe as tight as he can. “You can run out of time or you can turn it on. I’m not leaving her.”

“Pete, there are no telling the number of complications that could arise if the astrolabe’s powers were split between two people. For one, we’d have to coordinate our deceptions, and undercover has never been your strong suit—”

“I’ll argue with you,” Pete shrugs. “You love yelling at me, and usually when you yell you get all inspired about artifacts. I don’t think anyone’s going to notice something’s more wrong than it already is if you just keep yelling.”

“ _Two_ , and this would go so much faster if you would just _listen_ to me—we don’t even know if the astrolabe can work on more than one person.”

“It works on everyone in the world, so I’m going with yes.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Wizards can get Time Turners to work on two people at once and the Warehouse is as close to magic as we’re gonna get in this world. Activate the astrolabe, man.”

Artie gives him one last look, and then they’re back in the Warehouse. Pete looks around for a moment, trying to recalibrate his brain because it’s so weird—he can remember being in Italy but it feels like something from a movie, like he’s watching something happen with a tinned soundtrack and dramatic close-ups.

“Are you coming or are you just going to stand there?”

Pete looks to his left and finds Artie halfway up the aisle, making his way toward where everyone will be by the portal.

“How much time do we have before the bomb goes off?”

“I don’t know, but we need to find the others. We’ll find the dhoti faster if we all split up.”

“Artie!”

Pete whips around faster than he thought he could ever move at the sound of Myka’s voice. She’s running with Helena right on her heels. Both of them are rubbing vigorously at their necks.

“Myka!” Pete yells. “Look at you; you’re alive!”

She scowls at him. “Yeah, no thanks to either of you. We almost got strangled by—”

“Catch up _later_!” Artie scolds. “Has everyone forgotten about the man trying to blow up the Warehouse?”

“Wait, Sykes has a bomb? What are we doing standing here; we need to go—”

“How on earth did you determine that, Arthur; we’ve only just run away from that awful man and he did not divulge anything about an explosive device—”

“Mykes, I can’t believe you’re alive and not strangled or bleeding—”

“ _Enough!”_ Artie roars. “We need to find something that completely defuses the bomb because I have a feeling this is going to be a particularly nasty one.” Artie glares at Pete, raises his eyebrows until they’re indistinguishable from his hair (which they kind of already are), and it’s a long moment before Pete gets the hint.

“Oh!” he yells. “Okay, so, spit-balling here; what kind of artifact could you use to take out a bomb. A, uh, a magic pair of wire cutters, or maybe if we could throw it down that big black hole they always pull out on _Looney Tunes_ …”

“Pete, let’s be serious,” Myka chides.

“I am being serious!” he protests. “If this is some big, scary mega-bomb, we’ve gotta think outside the box to find some way to mega-contain it.”

“No, no, no,” Artie rambles, “we’re not looking to contain it; containment is impossible with a blast this size. We’re looking to eradicate it completely, to—to heal it…” He trails off and his look of dawning comprehension is as convincing as Pete has ever seen it.

“What?” Myka asks. “Artie, what is it?”

“Gandhi’s dhoti,” he answers. “It’s said to radiate pure, unadulterated peace when it’s worn.”

“So, what, we throw it over the bomb and call it a day? Where even _is_ the bomb?”

“No, we don’t throw it on the bomb. It neutralizes hatred, you see, and bombs don’t hate.”

“But people do,” Helena infers.

“Exactly. You two,” Artie says, pointing at Myka and Helena, “you go find Sykes and meet us back in the bronze sector. Pete, you’re coming with me.”

Pete throws Myka another smile, just because he can, before they all run in different directions. Well, Pete is more at a strenuous walk. Artie doesn’t run.

“ _Looney Tunes?!_ ” Artie grumbles from behind him.

Pete just giggles.

He has the time to giggle now.

/

Winning feels really, really good.

It’s sad, too, because they got everything back except for Steve, but Pete and Artie know the alternative, and this is so much better than that.

Mrs. Frederic calls up Mr. Kosan and drags Artie into a room to talk about Helena, but Pete isn’t having any of it.

“We can’t just let her loose, Peter _,_ ” Mrs. Frederic tells him. “We don’t know what she’s capable of and there are bigger things at stake.”

But that’s the thing. He knows exactly what she’s capable of.

“Mrs. F, I respect that you’re in charge around here and you could probably have me wiped from existence if you really wanted to. But I can’t let you take Helena away right now. There’s still a lot of healing that needs to get done, and the dhoti isn’t going to be enough. Don’t make me call my mom,” he warns.

Mrs. Frederic just glares at him.

“Okay, okay. Threat off the table; I overstepped. But come on, can’t you just let us breathe for a little bit?”

To his surprise, she nods. It’s just a little one, but it’s a nod.

He slips past her, feeling her eyes on his back as he collects Helena from the room they’ve holed her up in.

“Hey, Mary Poppins, I’m here to break you out.”

Helena swivels in her chair. “What?”

“Oh, right, I forgot you’re old. Anyway, let’s go; we’re all going back to the B&B.”

“But I thought—”

“I got you out of it. Come on, Myka’s waiting.”

Pete watches the realization dawn on Helena’s face, and she gets up with as big a smile as he’s ever seen her sport.

“Hey, uh, one more thing.” He grabs her sleeve before she walks out the door. “I know I said it before, but I really, _really_ want to thank you, Helena,” he murmurs, and he hugs her again. He lingers for a lot longer this time. Myka won’t mind.

He knows she won’t, because she practically tears her face apart smiling when Pete and Helena walk into Leena’s.

/

Pete dreams about everything for a long, long time.

_(“How do you say goodbye to the one person who knows you better than anyone else?”_

_“I wish I knew.”)_

He relives the forest, and the way it was killing him that Myka and Helena couldn’t touch. The way they were looking at each other, sure that was torture, too. But a little touch would have gone a long way—a hug or just holding hands or something. Something to make sure Helena was real before she literally blinked out of existence.

_(“You should be safe now.”_

_“But you’re—you’re out there.”)_

He remembers the bomb, Helena’s noble sacrifice. Everything unfolds in his sleep the same way it did in real life: he still says the same things to try and stop her— _we just avoided destroying you; you’re gonna throw it away; I just started to like you_ —and they still don’t work. She still explodes, and Myka still looks haunted.

But then he wakes up, and the sun is shining and the Warehouse is intact, and for once, reality is way better than his dreams.


	3. Myka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the comments and kudos. This has been a really, really fun one to write. Who knows; maybe I'll be back for another.

> _"It seems plausible enough tonight, but wait until tomorrow. Wait for the common sense of the morning."_ \--H.G. Wells, **_The Time Machine_**

Myka likes authority. She should, considering she is a well-versed practitioner. She likes rules and logic and order, because things are so much easier when you can follow a formula. When one person is calling the shots, problems are easier to solve. They are easier to prevent.

What she doesn’t like is when authority is abused, distorted and molded into something that only fits a specific set of needs. Authority can be lenient. It shouldn’t be malleable. The Regents are a necessary force, but they have become warped. Two thousand years of power is too long.

They have twisted Helena, poked and prodded at her as if she were made of Play-Doh, and Myka is tired of it. So when Helena walks into the B&B, trailing behind Pete and looking decidedly haggard, Myka is sure she’s never felt happier.

With the exception of Artie, they’re all in the living room in various states of exhaustion. Claudia is passed out on the couch, hugging the metronome like it’s her favorite stuffed animal. Leena and Mrs. Frederic are huddled in a corner, having a conversation in serious whispers. Sometimes Myka makes out Steve’s name, but mostly she just tries to relax. She closes her eyes and leans back into her chair. Helena got the execution all wrong, but the sentiment was in the right place. Sometimes, all you need is a good bit of rest.

“Mykes, hey, wake up.”

(And other times, your partner is Pete Lattimer.)

“I’m not asleep.”

“Okay, so open your eyes.”

“I mean, I _could_ be asleep, but I’m not.”

“Perhaps a bed would help with that, darling.”

Myka jolts out of her chair. “Helena! I thought the Regents—”

Helena twists her hands together. “It seems Pete swooped in at the last minute and freed me from their clutches. My savior,” she quips drily, rolling her eyes.

“Hey, hey, hey, who said he could charm the Regents?” Pete points both of his thumbs at his chest. “Pete Lattimer did!”

“Ah, I will never doubt anything you say again,” Myka concedes dramatically.

“Really?”

She punches him just because he looks so stupidly pleased with himself. “No, not really. But I might stop punching you so much.”

“I’ll take it.” Pete smiles until Myka smiles back, and then he cranes left and right, taking note of everyone in the room. “How are they all doing?”

Myka shakes her head. “Leena and Mrs. Frederic haven’t stopped talking since we got here. Claudia…I’m just hoping that a lot of sleep will take the edge off. I don’t know how to help her right now.”

“Okay, so, let me take the night shift and stay here until she’s awake. I wanna wait up for my mom, anyway.”

“She’s okay, right?”

“Yeah, she’s good. Safe and sound and probably annoying the flight attendants all the way back from China.” Myka furrows her brows. “She doesn’t like to fly,” Pete explains.

“Oh.”

“I’m gonna go sit with Claud, so you guys…”

Myka nods, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “Right, we’ll just go…yes.” She walks out of the room, squeezing Helena’s shoulder as she goes.

“Pete, thank you again,” Helena says before following.

Pete gives a little wave. “Don’t sweat it, Helena.”

“Helena?” Myka murmurs as they walk away. “He must be starting to like you.”

“We seem to have grown on each other, yes.”

Myka laughs as they walk upstairs. She can barely hear Helena step—she moves with silence, so softly that a part of Myka wants to walk backwards, just to make sure she’s there. Because that’s the problem with Helena; even when she’s not there, she is, and it can drive a girl mad trying to figure out what’s real and what’s hope.

They stop in front of Myka’s room. “Um, Steve was in your old room but I don’t think you’d—”

“No,” Helena shakes her head. “No, I don’t think I would. If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition…”

Myka smiles, reaching for Helena’s hand. “Everyone’s gotta sleep,” she shrugs. “Might as well be with a friend.”

“Truer words have rarely been spoken.”

They both stop when Myka flips on the light, because her room is exactly the way she left it before Sykes tried to ruin their lives. Her favorite worn-out boots are piled by her desk. There are two pencils lined neatly next to a notepad because when Myka can’t think and her brain is too busy to read, she doodles. The paperback she was reading is laying face-down on her bed, cracked open to where she stopped because Myka does not like bookmarks. She loves books and spent her childhood listening to her father rant on and on about preserving them and not letting the binding tear or bend. But she also spent most of her childhood not really liking her father (and his bookstore was a mess anyway, so who was he to tell her how to treat her favorite books?)

Helena notices the book immediately and picks it up. “Comics?” she laughs. “My dear, I had you pegged for a literature elitist.”

“I am,” Myka grumbles, snatching _Persepolis_ out of Helena’s hands. “But I lost a bet with Pete when we had a superhero case and he made me read some ‘grown-up comics.’” She makes exaggerated air-quote gestures. “They’re not really comics; they’re graphic novels. And this one is particularly traumatizing.”

“If a work relies on pictures to convey meaning because words have failed, it isn’t much of a book.”

“You can read art just as much as you can read words.”

“But not with the same gravitas.”

“You, Helena Wells, are not familiar with 21st-century visual literacy. But I can teach you all about it.”

“If you’re talking about film, Pete has already tried and failed to educate me.”

“Pete tried with monster movies and sports flicks. Give me a little more credit than that. I think Pollock would blow your mind.”

“Is that an allergen?”

“Oh, stop.” Myka reaches for the book, but Helena yanks it away.  “I’m going to take a shower. Read a little of that and then tell me how much of a book it isn’t.”

“I can assure you, I won’t be impressed.”

Myka rolls her eyes and heads into the bathroom. She turns on the water but doesn’t get in for a good five minutes. Helena is reading the book, and the longer Myka watches, the more engrossed she becomes.

She can’t stop smiling as she gets into the shower.

It isn’t the time to be smiling, in the wake of everything that’s happened. Or maybe this is exactly the time. Myka can’t tell—of the Warehouse Wonder Twins, she isn’t the one who gets vibes. Pete can read situations better than she can, which is sometimes a frightening thought.

Myka could stay in the shower for a long time, if she really wanted to. Pete is going to fall asleep waiting for his mom, as much as he says he won’t. He will. He could fall asleep in the middle of a volcano. Helena gets into a trance very quickly when she reads a good book, and Myka knows that _Persepolis_ is more than a good book. The water is warm and calming, and she’d be happy to stay in here forever.

But she can’t and she won’t, because there is too much to do. There are too many people who need her. If there’s one thing Myka’s learned from her time as a Warehouse agent, it’s that when one person falls down, everyone does. Myka will not be the one to fall this time.

So she dawdles just a little bit and eventually gets out, rouging a towel against hair that has started to curl again.

Helena is a third of the way through the book when Myka emerges from the bathroom.

“So,” she wheedles, “how do you like it?”

Helena pretends to be annoyed at her self-satisfied smirk. “It has merit.”

Myka grins triumphantly. “Told you.” She drapes her towel over a chair. “I’m done with the bathroom, if you want a shower.”

“I do,” Helena says, closing the book. “But I am extraordinarily fatigued, and I fear I may fall asleep quite abruptly.”

“Okay. So we’ll sleep.”

Helena looks at her warily, her eyes never leaving Myka’s face as she gets settled into bed.

“Myka, don’t you think—?”

“We can talk in the morning, Helena. You’re not the only who’s _extraordinarily fatigued_.” Myka turns off the lamp on her nightstand, waiting for Helena to follow suit.

But still, Helena hesitates. “Are you sure—?”

“Helena.” Myka snaps though she doesn’t intend to. She just wants to sleep so she can start forgetting the day they’ve just had, because if she stays away she’ll run out of things to say about Pete or graphic novels or anything that doesn’t have to do with almost losing everything, and if she does that, there will be little hope of a quick recovery.

“I just want to sleep,” she says, composing herself. Helena nods a little but still makes no move to turn off the light. Myka remembers then, and shakes her head. “I’m sorry; I totally forgot. If you want to keep the lamp on, that’s fine.”

Helena smiles and looks down, fiddling with her hands in her lap. “That’s very thoughtful, darling. I would demur and say that I’ve outgrown such insecurities, but after an ordeal like this they’ve come back in full force. Will you be able to rest?”

Myka smiles. “You know I always do.”

“Well, it has been a while,” Helena concedes. “It seems I may have forgotten as well.”

She slides under the covers, curling her hands under her cheek. Helena, despite growing up in the 1800s, is not as conservative a creature as Myka had expected. Pete likes to make fun and tease her about Victorian restraint, but Helena has always belonged to the modern age. She is forward-thinking, forward-doing, forward-reaching.

Myka is the only one who knows that at night, Helena is small and prim.

“Good night,” Helena whispers, and she closes her eyes.

Myka says nothing. Instead, she reaches forward and pulls Helena closer. Helena doesn’t open her eyes or acknowledge Myka in any way, but her back sags in relief and (Myka hopes) comfort.

Myka is exhausted. She is tired of artifacts and their troubles. She is tired of worrying about her physical safety with every mission. She is tired of playing parent to the entire planet. She is tired of authority, of responsibility and duty.

But Helena is real again and within Myka’s reach.

She lies awake the whole night making sure that doesn’t change.

/

She dreams of impossible things, of a deceptively tranquil forest that reeks of death the further in she goes. She dreams of being trapped in electricity, as if a Tesla could shoot nets of fire.

And, as always, she dreams of Helena; of her smile and her words; of little moments that seem bigger in hindsight; of big moments that she wishes she could shrink. Big is overwhelming. Big envelops and overtakes, swallows and engulfs.

In every one of her dreams, just as in life, Helena looms.

/

Myka sleeps later than she ever has in her life. It is almost dark again when she wakes up. Helena is curled in a chair by the window, and Myka has no intention of leaving her room today.

This is their time to heal.

She sits up in bed, wiping the dreams out of her eyes. She wishes some of them could stay.

“What time is it?” she asks.

(Helena looks at her and Myka thinks that maybe some of them have.)

“Just after five.”

Myka widens her eyes. “In the afternoon?” Helena nods. “I slept that long?”

Helena smiles. “You awoke two or three hours ago, kicked me, and fell back asleep. I found it prudent to relocate.”

Myka blushes. “Sorry about that,” she laughs sheepishly. “I’ve never been a graceful sleeper.”

“One of your very few inelegant qualities.”

Myka overlooks the compliment. “How did you sleep?”

Helena sighs before answering. “Restlessly. To be expected, I suppose.”

Myka hums in agreement. “Probably.”

“Did you know,” Helena says, leaning her head against the window, “for as fascinated as I was with space, I spent very little time looking at the stars? They are terribly abstract, and it was quite past my abilities to render them more comprehensible.”

“You mean you can’t do everything?” Myka jokes.

“I wish I could,” Helena absently mutters. “It was only after Egypt that I started to examine them,” she continues. “It is easier to appreciate faraway things when you are out of touch yourself.”

“How—?

“Irene is a very ardent conversationalist, contrary as that may seem. I’m sure it was against protocol to let my consciousness free as often as she did, but we had many talks well into the morning hours.”

Myka is more than a little impressed that Helena is on a first-name basis with Mrs. Frederic. “What did you talk about?”

“The Warehouse, mostly. My time in the Bronzer.” Her cheeks flush and she exhales, fogging the window just the slightest bit. “Christina. She left nothing untouched. I am grateful now, but it was draining, to say the least.”

Helena props an arm on the windowsill and rests her chin on her fist. She draws a foot onto her chair, curling her knee close to her chest. It is as modern a position as Myka has ever seen her adopt. She wonders what Helena really thinks of the 21st century.

“It wasn’t until our last talk that I truly began to solve my most intricate puzzle.”

“And what’s that?”

“I am a scientist,” Helena continues. “An inventor. It is in my nature to explain the inexplicable. It is because I am puzzled by the abstract that I surround myself with it. After a century in its depths, I thought I had come to fear it. But it is not the unknown that haunts me.” Helena sighs and shrugs. “You, Myka Bering, are far too tangible.”

“I don’t mean to be,” Myka automatically deflects. It is so easy to placate, to comfort, when Helena will never stop needing it.

“But you do,” Helena protests, “and it is the very best part of you.” She gets up from her chair, crosses back to the bed and sits down. Her hands hover in the space between them, as if she is reluctant to reach. Myka makes the decision for her. Helena’s skin is soft and cool, and every inch of it is trembling. That only makes Myka hold on tighter.

“There has always been an understanding between us, I think. If Charles were here, he would spin you a thousand romantic yarns. He would write odes to your eyes and pen sonnets about your hair. But I lack his finesse. I am no wordsmith. I find it almost impossible to give thought to my feelings for you other than to say that I have come to consider you the most important part of my life. It is a feeling so thorough that sometimes I find myself quite paralyzed.”

“For not-a-wordsmith, you sure know how to woo a girl.”

“I’m being serious, Myka.”

“So am I.” She squeezes Helena’s hand until she makes eye contact. Helena looks terrified. Hopeful, open, but mostly terrified. Myka tries to speak. Instead, she cries.

She cries because the Warehouse was almost decimated; because they almost died; because Steve _is_ dead; because Helena is finally talking and it is too late. It is too late for Myka to truly save her, too late to make up for a year of fractured hope.

Myka cries because it isn’t too late at all.

Helena holds her until she sleeps again.

/

“Waiting is failure,” her father used to say, which is pretty ironic considering the book he kept dormant for thirty years. But perhaps he said that to spare his children the pain of regret. Tracy took it to heart. She went after clubs and awards and boys and didn’t relent until she had them. Myka was a cautious child. She always waited, and to her father, thus she always failed.

But there was merit to waiting. Patience usually prevailed. The tortoise surpassed the hare. Myka waited through med school, through law classes and all the literature she could find. She waited and learned six languages, mastered martial arts, and fencing, and intellect. She waited until the Secret Service wouldn’t let her, until Sam wouldn’t let her, and it was then she thought herself ready.

But at Yellowstone she failed again, and Myka stopped waiting. She stopped doing everything.

The problem, of course, is that we never stop waiting. Waiting is our natural state. So Myka has always been waiting.

She has always been waiting for Helena.

Helena, who spent a hundred years waiting for all the wrong things. Helena waited and dreamed of a thousand ways to destroy the world. Myka waited and thought of a thousand ways to save it.

They will always need each other.

Myka has been waiting for Helena and—as it so often happens with longstanding dreams—she has no idea what to do when she is finally allowed to stop.

/

Helena is gone the next time she wakes up. It is early morning; Myka can still see dew on the window. Artie’s sports car is still missing from the driveway, but the SUV she shares with Pete and the clunky El Camino that Claudia has appropriated are still there.

Large tragedies often abound with small comforts.

The house is silent so Myka quickly makes her way downstairs, itching for some kind of a distraction. There aren’t many to choose from. Pete is playing some game on his phone and Claudia must be in her room. Or Steve’s, Myka things with a twinge of guilt.

She plods to the kitchen and finds hot water waiting with an assortment of tea to choose from.

“H.G. came down about half an hour ago,” Pete says from the doorway. “Left those for you.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t think you did it,” Myka smiles.

Pete winces, feigning hurt. “Hey, I can be thoughtful sometimes.”

“I know.” She studies the selection of tea, deciding on one with five packets left because all the others have four. Myka likes order. “How’d you sleep?”

Pete shrugs. “I didn’t, mostly. Hung out with my mom when she got back, played some games with Claudia until she started crying again. Artie dropped by for a little and made, like, five zillion batches of cookies.”

“And how many of those batches are left?”

“Two.”

“Two zillion?”

“No, just two.” Pete pats his stomach. “I gotta do something when I can’t sleep.”

Myka smiles and blows on her tea to cool it. “What kind of cookies?”

“You know those jelly ones with the powdered sugar?”

“Ah,” Myka nods. “Claudia’s favorite.”

“Yeah.”

“Has she eaten anything?”

“Nope.” Myka cranes her head, finding two plates of cookies sitting on the kitchen counter. “H.G.’s in the garden with Leena, if you wanna…”

Myka picks up a plate of cookies instead. It teeters on one palm as she balances it against the tea in her other hand. “No, I think I’m gonna—”

“Right. Well, I bet they’ll still be flower-bonding when you come back down.”

Myka nods. “Thanks, Pete.”

“Hey, Mykes?”

Myka turns around, a little too quickly given what she’s holding. The cookies slide on the plate but thankfully don’t fall. “Yeah?”

“Love you.”

Myka smiles. “I’d hug you if it didn’t mean I’d lose half of these cookies at the same time.”

“Say it back.”

She smiles wider. “Love you too, Pete.”

Once Myka gets her bearings, the stairs are easy to navigate. She avoids all the usual creaks, leans against the banister for all the precarious twists, and finds herself in front of Claudia’s door before she’s really ready to be. She debates knocking on the door with her foot, but decides against it. It isn’t worth possibly dropping every bit of comfort she’s brought with her.

“Claud?” she calls gently. “If you’re in there, I’d love it if you could open the door. My hands are kind of full.” It’s quiet for a few moments before Myka hears movement on the other side of the room. The door swings open a moment later. Myka can’t see Claudia, but she steps in anyway. “I brought cookies,” she says, finally finding Claudia behind the door.

“And tea?” Claudia scoffs.

“Oh. No, the tea is for me, but—I mean, if you want it—”

“Whatever.”

Myka watches Claudia sit back on her bed, immediately reaching for her laptop and pulling it into her lap. “Okay, so I’ll just…” She sets the plate of cookies on Claudia’s desk and sits on the other side of the bed.

“Did Pete send you up to check on me? Are you here to give me magic advice that makes me feel better?”

“No. I mean, I have things to say, but they aren’t going to make anything better.”

“Good pep talk.”

Myka thinks for a moment before speaking again. When Claudia is uncomfortable with something, she becomes resistant. This feels like that first wrestling case all over again, where it falls to Myka to help Claudia see that she can help herself.

(One of the good things about being Myka is she knows how to deal with resistance. Her father called it obstinacy, and he spent a good deal of Myka’s childhood berating her for being stubborn. He didn’t know that she wouldn’t have been stubborn if he had said the right things.

Myka knows exactly what to say to Claudia because it’s everything she was always waiting for.)

“You hid the metronome, right?”

Claudia looks up from her laptop, nose flared, eyes ready to fight. “Why?”

Myka shrugs. “You’ve got little hiding places all over the Warehouse; I bet you’ve got some in here.”

“You’re never going to find it.”

“I’m not looking for it.”

“Myka, I swear, if you rat me out to Artie or Mrs. Frederic—”

Myka just shakes her head. “I’m not going to. I just wanted to say that—knowing where we work—if you plan on using an artifact…use it wisely.”

Claudia pauses before rotating her computer to show Myka the screen. She’s too far away to read anything, but there are multiple tabs of research open. “What do you think I’m doing?”

“Okay.” There is a loose thread on Claudia’s blanket. Part of Myka wants to snip the excess with a pair of scissors and then burn the edge so it won’t fray. The other part just wants to rip it off. “Claud, I know you loved Steve—”

“Don’t talk about him in past tense; I’m bringing him back,” Claudia interrupts.

“Okay. Well, I know you love Steve. And I know it hurts to lose him. But you don’t have to feel it alone.”

“I won’t. I told you; I’m bringing him back.”

“Yeah, I heard you, Claud. But he died two days ago”—Claudia winces—“and he isn’t back yet. So let us help you while you figure things out.”

Claudia says nothing.

“I’ve lost two partners,” Myka continues. “I know how you feel.”

“H.G. came back.”

“Sam didn’t.”

Claudia looks up from her computer. “Yeah, but that’s different.” She flails her hand absently in Myka’s direction. “You’re…you’re Myka. You take bad stuff and you handle it. I’m—” She stops abruptly, swallowing around the tears starting to form in her eyes. “I’m twenty years old,” she exhales. “My best friend just died and I don’t know what to do.”

“You think I magically know what to do because I’ve passed thirty?”

Claudia doesn’t say anything, but her eyes answer yes. It isn’t a definitive answer. It is a hopeful one.

Myka just laughs. “That is a lot of bullshit. That is probably the most bullshit I’ve ever heard coming from you.”

“What?”

“I don’t have all the answers, Claud. When Sam died, I threw myself into work and ended up at the Warehouse. Helena almost killed me and I ran away. I don’t always handle things.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Let me say this, and then you can protest all you want, okay?” Claudia nods. “Losing a partner feels like losing a limb. You’ve relied on this one person for so long, and then suddenly you don’t have them anymore. You’re down an arm and you can’t hold onto things as well as you used to, or maybe you don’t have your left foot and now you don’t know how to balance.

Losing Sam was like losing my thumbs. He was such a big part of me. He worked his way into everything I did so well that he became part of my daily routine. He always kept a pen in his pocket because I could never find mine. He kept my favorite coffee mug clean and hidden from everyone else at the office. He left little notes on my keyboard so he didn’t always have to make it so obvious that we were getting lunch together. And when he died, it was like I forgot how to write, and I couldn’t pour coffee, and sometimes I just couldn’t bear to touch my keyboard.”

“But you got better,” Claudia murmurs.

Myka pretends not to hear. “I was so busy relearning how to use pens and computers that I wasn’t ready for Helena. I—I loved her so deeply and so quickly that I forgot to protect myself. So when I lost her, it was like my head was upside down on my neck, or my heart was buried in the desert, or my lungs had stretched all the way down to my feet. It felt wrong and uncomfortable, and I had to take a long time to put myself back the right way again.”

“So how did you?”

“She came back.”

Claudia narrows her eyes. “It’s as easy as that?”

“No,” Myka sighs. “But mostly yes.” She scoots forward and reaches for Claudia’s hand, smoothing her thumb across the back of it. “Claud, you’re gonna be sad and it’s gonna feel like you don’t know how to do the easiest things. But you won’t feel that way forever. Artie, and Pete, and Leena, and Helena and I—we won’t let you.”

Claudia fights a smile. She loses. “So…”

Myka gets up, running her fingers through Claudia’s hair on her way. “So I’ll be out in the garden with Helena if you need me.”

“H.G. gardens?” Claudia asks, wrinkling her nose.

Myka imitates her. “I know, right? I think it’s weird, too.” She smiles and grabs her tea (and a couple of cookies—Pete will probably find her again) and starts to leave.

“Hey, Myka?”

Myka turns in the doorway. “Yeah.”

“Did you mean it? You love H.G.?”

“What, you didn’t know?” Claudia cocks her head and waits. “Yeah,” Myka admits with a smile. “I do. I love her a lot.”

“Did you tell her?”

“Almost.”

“Did you tell Pete?”

“He told me.”

Claudia laughs. “Figures.” She looks down and plays with the hem of her jeans. “So, like, I’m the first person you’ve really said it out loud to?”

Myka cranes her neck, pretending the thought hadn’t crossed her mind. “You know, I guess you are. Why?”

“Oh, no, you know, no reason,” Claudia stutters, blushing. “It’s, um, I was just curious—it’s cool.” She looks up and clears her throat. “It’s really cool. Don’t worry about me; go garden or whatever.”

Myka smiles and sips her tea.

“Happy researching, Claud.”

/

The garden is more of just a backyard lined with some flowers, but Leena keeps it well-maintained and healthy, so Myka isn’t exactly going to split hairs. Leena and Helena are sitting at the table, talking and sipping what Myka presumes to be tea. Helena doesn’t like coffee. Myka can’t hear the conversation, but they look somber. Helena face aches of the bitter nostalgia she always expresses when she mentions Christina. She wonders if Helena will ever be free of that.

Leena spots her first, making eye contact and waiting for a break in the conversation to excuse herself.

No doubt Helena notices and continues to talk.

Myka comes up behind Helena and places her hands gently on her shoulders. “Sorry to interrupt…”

“It’s no trouble,” Leena smiles. She gets up and moves to the side to let Myka take her chair. “We’ll talk again, Helena,” she promises.

Helena simply nods.

“Did you know,” Myka says as she drinks her tea, “that Leena and Mrs. Frederic are very close?”

“That would certainly explain a lot,” Helena mumbles.

“I bet you thought you were free of the talks when you got your body back, huh?”

“I thought I was free of something, yes.”

“Helena.” Myka extends her hand across the table until Helena takes it. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

“It’s alright, darling.”

“It isn’t, but thank you.”

“We’re all a little discombobulated right now. Emotions are bound to work against us.”

Myka nods absently. She looks at the sky, trying to find hints of stars that have not yet hidden from daylight. “You were right, you know.” Helena peers at her quizzically, as if Myka is another creation that is working in an unexpected way. “There is an understanding between us.”

“I am right quite often,” Helena grins. “So glad to hear you affirm it.”

Myka smiles and pushes against her hand. “It’s kind of an unspoken understanding though, don’t you think?” Helena nods. “And that’s not good enough anymore.”

“It isn’t.”

“I love you,” Myka says clearly—simply, as if were just another fact of her life, and it is. It is the truest thing Myka will ever feel.

Helena squeezes her hand. Myka hears her breath hitch at least twice, but neither of them mentions it. “I love you so intently, Myka, that it terrifies me.”

“Because you think it might end?”

Helena lifts her hand, gently pressing a kiss to the back of it. “No, darling. Because I know it won’t. Because you make me so blindingly happy that I see stars.”

Helena speaks as though she has never known how to lie.

It’s all Myka can do not to spend the next hour crying out of relief.

“I suppose we should head inside and mingle with everyone else,” Helena says.

“Do you want to?”

“I can think of nothing I would rather do more than to continue sitting here with you.”

“Then we’ll sit.”

And they do.

/

Artie is the first to return to the Warehouse. It surprises no one. Myka scratches her head when Pete is the one to follow him. She stays home for a few days with Helena, but she is still awake every morning to hear him walking out the door at seven o’clock, already on the phone with Artie. She doesn’t pay much attention. More than likely, Pete will forget all about it in a few days.

There are far better ways to be spending her time, anyway, and all of them have to do with Helena.

They spend their days in the bed and breakfast. Helena talks. Myka kisses her. Helena cries. Myka kisses her some more.

They take walks at night, for as long as they want in any direction they choose. The middle of nowhere looks astonishingly different depending on what you want to see. Helena wants to see everything, and Myka is determined to show it to her.

Helena kisses Myka until her entire body feels like stardust.

/

It takes Claudia another three weeks to wake Steve up. The first time he eats with them again, Pete spends the entire meal telling him he smells. Claudia kicks him under the table and Helena asks Steve how his motor functions are returning, because there isn’t a single thing that doesn’t fascinate her.

Myka is constantly fascinated with just one thing, and she is British and sitting right across from her.

Helena doesn’t return to the Warehouse like Myka had hoped she would. She dutifully works through inventory, sometimes assisted by Leena. She has hours’ worth of conversations with Claudia about archival efficiency. Artie seems to shudder every time he finds them working on something.

Sometimes, Myka ends up working cases alone or with Claudia or Steve, because Pete finds reasons to stay behind. He is becoming secretive again, like that case with the telegraph, and Myka would mention it to Artie except Artie is often his partner-in-crime. Myka catches them more than once having agitated conversations in Artie’s office or a hidden aisle of artifacts. Every time they have an excuse that seems plausible enough, but Myka did not become a Secret Service agent by accepting circumstantial evidence.

It’s hard, though, to focus on work when her private life has never seemed happier.

Helena doesn’t ask for a new room. She moves in with Myka and no one has anything to say about it, though Claudia can’t stop squealing and Pete winks so much it looks as though he’s developed a permanent twitch. At night, they climb into bed and read together and sometimes, when Myka pretends to be asleep, she catches Helena writing. She never mentions it or asks about it in the morning, but Myka can barely focus on her favorite books. There is something she wants to read more, but she’s too polite to ask.

One night, a little over two months after everything with Sykes, Helena puts down her book and just sits, flicking a page with her thumbnail.

“Something on your mind?” Myka asks.

“I’m worried about Pete,” Helena says.

Myka puts down her book. “Oh my god, you noticed it, too? Wait, no, of course you did; look who I’m talking to.”

“He seems to be getting more and more hostile every day. Arthur, too, though to be perfectly frank I’m not sure he’s ever been less than hostile toward me.”

“Helena, stop. Artie likes you now.”

“Yes, he does, doesn’t he? I still haven’t figured out why.”

Myka scoffs. “Why wouldn’t he?” Helena looks at her with such disbelief that Myka has to laugh. She kisses Helena—once, twice—just because she can. “Alright, alright. Message received.”

“I think it has something to do with the bomb,” Helena continues.

“Sykes’s bomb?”

“Yes, don’t you find it a little convenient that Arthur remembered the dhoti so quickly?”

“Well, he had to remember quickly,” Myka reasons. “That’s the whole point of a bomb.”

“But how did he know about the bomb in the first place?” Helena presses. “He not only knew that it existed, but when we went to make sure it was neutralized, he knew exactly where it was in Mr. Sykes’s chair.”

“Well it certainly wasn’t on Sykes himself.”

“Myka, do you recall the case with my time machine?”

“Of course.”

“You were reluctant to entertain the idea of traveling to the past. But you accepted it once the you that was in the past explained, with irrefutable evidence—how you twirled your hair, the way you were standing, that the only logical conclusion was time travel.”

Myka leans back and looks at Helena, really looks, to find some particle of doubt in her eyes. She finds nothing.

“You think Artie traveled back in time?”

“Along with Pete, yes.”

“They used your time machine?”

Helena shakes her head. “No, and that’s what worries me. We would have known if my machine were in use. For one, someone would had to have fixed it, as I recall leaving it in somewhat of a state of disrepair. But my machine requires time to operate it, and we could not afford any if we wanted to dismantle the bomb.”

“What are you saying, Helena?”

“Whatever Arthur and Pete used to alter time is a device unfamiliar to the Warehouse, and one whose side effects are very much unknown. What is the phrase you so often espouse?”

“‘There is always a downside,’” Myka answers. “So what’s this one?”

“I fear we’re about to find out.”

/

The downside doesn’t just hit Pete and Artie. The whole Warehouse gets tense and Mrs. Frederic keeps stopping by, scaring them all half to death. She talks with Claudia and Myka at length, asking them questions about things they’ve noticed. Myka feels more than a little embarrassed when she isn’t able to answer as well as Mrs. Frederic wants her to. But it isn’t anything concrete. Myka notices little things—nothing that would point them to whatever artifact caused the change. She notices feelings and doesn’t know what to do with them. Pete is the one who gets vibes, not her.

Mrs. Frederic talks with Helena, too, and it bothers Myka more than she’d care to admit. From the way they sneak off to chat, she’s pretty sure it isn’t like any of their other talks Helena had mentioned. It feels ominous, and Myka clings to Helena even more. She makes sure they eat as many meals together as they can. She pesters Helena even more about returning to field work.

Helena bristles every time, but Myka just can’t seem to stop.

“Myka!” Helena finally snaps one night. She paces around their room, fingers busy with the locket at her chest. “I would love to return to the Warehouse,” she says, somewhat calmer, “but it is impossible right now.”

“Why?” Myka protests. “Artie’s barely in charge anymore, Pete won’t go on missions. The Warehouse could use an extra set of hands.”

“And it has one. Just not for curiosities.”

Myka runs a hand through her hair and sits on the bed. “This has something to do with the time-traveling artifact, doesn’t it?”

Helena hesitates for a moment, rocking back and forth on her heels before closing the bedroom door. “Irene may have a lead on the artifact, yes.”

“Is it the right lead?”

“I have spent a considerable amount of time with Irene and the amount of resources to which she has access astounds even me.”

“So, yes,” Myka concludes. “What is it?”

“Have you seen Arthur’s pocket watch?”

Myka furrows her brows. “No.”

“He keeps it hidden in his desk; perhaps you’re chasing artifacts too often to notice. We think it belonged to Duarte Barbossa.”

“The captain of Magellan’s ship?”

Helena nods. “It is purported to lead its bearer to the location of Magellan’s astrolabe. An astrolabe which, in turn, can erase time for twenty four hours.”

“And that’s what Pete and Artie used.” Helena nods again. “Why?”

“We don’t know,” Helena shrugs. “Clearly something happened that was so terrible they found it necessary to take such a large risk in order to fix it.”

“Well, Pete is pretty emotional, but the only thing Artie would risk that much for is the—”

“The Warehouse, yes,” Helena finishes. “I can only conclude that in this alternate version of reality, we failed to save the Warehouse.”

“So far I’m not seeing the downside to using this thing.”

“The astrolabe creates an unknown evil in whoever uses it,” Helena explains. “An evil that is uncontrollable and absolute. Robespierre used the astrolabe in 1793 and created the Reign of Terror. The only bit of luck in this situation is that Pete and Arthur have split the evil between them, making it a little less potent.”

“If we’re so lucky, why don’t you look relieved?”

Helena joins Myka on the bed and takes her hand. “Irene and I have found only one solution to this problem. There is a dagger, first owned by Francesco Borgia, that has the ability to separate good from evil when used on an afflicted person.”

“And by used, you mean…?”

“Pete and Arthur must be stabbed,” Helena says, confirming Myka’s worst fears. Myka often appreciates Helena’s tendency toward candor. Today she wishes for a little sugar-coating.

“Okay.” Myka swallows, pushing down her feelings and looking at the situation objectively. “So where is it?”

“I don’t know.” Helena averts her eyes. “Irene, once again, has more than a few suspicions, and she has entrusted me with the task of finding it.”

“Helena…”

“I don’t want to leave you, darling, but think of what might happen should I stay.”

“We can all go. It’ll be faster if we have four people searching at once.”

“And what do you think Pete and Arthur would get up to if they were left unsupervised for an extended period of time?”

“You shouldn’t have to do this alone, Helena.”

“I don’t intend to, darling.” She leans forward and kisses Myka—soft, full of promises and fears and love. Helena has a great capacity for love. Myka feels lucky to finally experience it in full. “I must ask that you stay behind and keep an eye on everything for me. They will be suspicious, and they cannot realize our plan.”

“But—”

“I am not leaving you,” Helena promises, and kisses her again. “I have no intention of leaving you. I will find the dagger and we will cure Arthur and Pete. Wrongs will be righted and the Warehouse will come back to full working order.”

“Bering and Wells,” Myka smiles. “Solving puzzles—”

“And saving the day, yes.” Helena smiles, too. “As it always will be, darling.” She gets up and opens the top drawer of her nightstand, pulling out a well-worn notebook. “I love you dearly, Myka. If you should need a reminder while I’m gone, please give this a look.”

“Okay.”

“Come to bed, love. There is still time for rest before I embark on another great adventure.”

“I love you too, Helena.”

“I know.”

/

Myka spends four weeks reading Helena’s stories over and over again. They are stories of Myka; of Claudia; of an old man who is grumpy in the most familiar way. Helena writes with poise and wit and heartbreaking elegance. Myka tries to reconcile these stories with the classic novels of the past. H.G. Wells wrote about fantasies and impossible machines.

Helena Wells writes about people.

She can say she isn’t a wordsmith all she wants. Myka knows the truth.

/

The day Helena comes back, Myka can’t concentrate. Claudia and Steve are in Maryland, chasing Clara Barton’s nurse’s cap, which renders the wearer insusceptible to harm. They grumble all the way through the umbilicus about Civil War artifacts.

The last time Myka saw them, Pete and Artie were going to do inventory near the bronze sector. Which is why she is so alarmed when the computer dings with an artifact displacement in the IRS Quartum.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Helena says from behind her.

“Jeez, Helena!” Myka jumps. “Stop spending so much time with Mrs. Frederic.”

Helena points to the screen. “What is that?”

“The IRS Quartum,” Myka explains. “I think it’s where stuff from Warehouse 8 is kept.”

“The time of the Romans?”

“Yeah.”

Helena inhales sharply. “Myka, we must get down there immediately.”

“But—”

“I have the dagger. Run.”

They opt for the zipline instead, covering the last bit of distance on foot. Pete and Artie are waiting for them, Teslas aimed at their heads.

Myka puts her hands up in surrender immediately. “Pete, Artie, come on. You don’t want to do this.”

“We know what you’re here for,” Artie says. He shakes a handful of papers at her; Myka can make out Francesco Borgia’s name at least five times. It is written in Helena’s hand.

“It isn’t what you think.” She turns to Helena. “How did they get these?”

Helena sighs. “I left research with Leena. I didn’t want to take it all with me, and I still didn’t have all the answers. Once again, it seems I have underestimated the agents of this Warehouse.”

“Don’t listen to her, Mykes. There’s stuff going on that you don’t know about.”

“Pete, you’ve been affected by—”

“No, you’re not listening!” Pete yells. “Brother Adrian’s coming after all of us and he wants us to use the astrolabe again—”

“Who’s Brother Adrian?” Myka murmurs.

“He is part of a secret society that takes care of the astrolabe,” Helena answers.

“—he wants us to undo what we changed and I can’t do that,” Pete continues, oblivious to any interruptions. “And now we can’t even focus on stopping him because your girlfriend is trying to kill us.”

“I don’t want to kill you, Pete,” Helena says. “Your mind is addled from the astrolabe.”

“My mind is fine, H.G. You’ve got all these plans for me and Artie and this knife. What else am I supposed to take away from that, huh?”

“The truth.”

“Mykes,” Pete pleads. “Mykes, you gotta listen to me. She’s obviously working with Brother Adrian. Don’t let her get to you, too.”

“Pete, put the Tesla down and I promise we’ll talk.”

“Do you know why we used the astrolabe? You died, Mykes. Claudia got arrested and everyone died. Brother Adrian stabbed you in the gut, and now he wants to undo everything we’ve fixed. I can’t let him do that.”

“I—” Myka swallows against the lump in her throat, shakes her head a little to clear away the tears. “Everyone died?”

“Yeah. Sykes blew up the Warehouse and H.G. sacrificed herself to save us from going with it, but then we went to Italy to find the astrolabe and Brother Adrian stabbed you in the Vatican. We had to use it, Myka.”

“Okay.” Myka nods, thinking. “Okay, well, if you had died I probably would have used it, too. But, Pete, there are consequences that you didn’t know about, and they’re putting you in danger.”

“I’m the one trying to stop the danger, Mykes.”

“I know you think that, but—”

“Myka, I don’t want to have to shoot you.”

“We can talk about this, Pete.”

“Please, just get out of my way so I can fix this.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

Suddenly there is a scuffle behind Myka. Helena runs past her. “I cast you out!” she screams, and then she stabs Artie.

Myka is just as stunned as Pete is.

“You—” He growls and turns his Tesla away from Myka, pointing it at Helena’s back.

“No!” Myka yells, running in front of Helena.

“I will shoot you, Mykes.”

“So shoot me,” she challenges.

He does.

/

(The last time she invited someone to shoot her, Myka won.

Losing hurts a lot more than she thought it would.)

/

She wakes a few hours later. Someone has deposited her onto her bed and left aspirin and a glass of water with a note.

_Sorry_ , it says in scratchy capital letters. Myka recognizes Pete’s handwriting right away.

“He’s alright. A little embarrassed, but physically fine.”

Helena is watching her again from her favorite perch by the window. Myka smiles and reaches for the aspirin.

“And Artie?”

“Good as new.”

“He isn’t mad at you?”

“He’s furious.”

“So we’re back to normal, then.”

“It would appear so.” Helena grins and gets up, stretching as she does. Myka takes a moment to appreciate her reach. It is a good, long reach.

“Did you…?”

“Pete and Arthur have matching knife wounds in their right shoulders. They should heal completely in a few weeks.” Helena lies next to her on the bed, resting her cheek against Myka’s side. “I had to make a very quick decision, darling. Forgive me for not rousing you before incapacitating your partner.”

“Forgive you? I don’t think I’ll ever run out of ways to thank you.”

“That sounds wonderfully enticing.”

Helena laughs and leans up for a kiss. Myka stays for three.

“You know,” Myka says, running a hand through Helena’s hair, “it seems to me that whether or not the Warehouse is exploding, you’re always the one saving my life.”

“Or the one ruining it.”

“We’re all past that, Helena. Artie, me, Pete—we’ve all forgiven you. You don’t have to dwell on it anymore.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean I should forget it either.”

“Just as long as you don’t also forget how good you are.”

“It seems that you are quite intent on constantly reminding me.”

Myka laughs. “Yeah, you should get used to that.”

“I would love to.”

“Have you talked to Steve and Claudia?”

Helena shakes her head, rustling her hair against Myka’s shoulder. “No, I haven’t called them yet. Perhaps—”

She moves to get up but Myka pulls her back down. “Later, Helena. Things will be just as okay when they get back as they are now.”

“Later?”

“Later,” Myka confirms.

“Alright,” Helena mumbles, settling back against Myka. “Tell me about later. Tell me about tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

Myka tells tales of artifacts and mishaps; of Pete and his shenanigans; of Claudia and her wonderful brain. She tells tales of what the future holds for all of them. Myka stumbles over words that Helena would find in a second, laughs through prepositions and one too many conjunctions. She tells stories about the brave squad entrusted with protecting the world, and they always win the day, and they always survive.

In her arms, Helena sleeps.

There is a world outside of the bed and breakfast, full of dangers and wonders and adventures.

Myka presses a kiss to Helena’s temple.

The world can wait.

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this story came from the fact that I marathoned WH13 in about three days and got completely obsessed and decided I wanted to write something. I find Helena fascinating, and especially the vague hints they've dropped about her relationship with her brother, so I started researching the lesser-known H.G. Wells novels and I came upon one called _In the Days of the Comet_. The summary goes like this: "In the midst of a world war, the tail of a comet brushes the atmosphere of earth, causing everyone to lose consciousness for a few hours. When the world awakens, everyone has an expanded understanding of the meaning of things. [...] What caused the transformation--or was there one?" 
> 
> 1) If that isn't the show's inspiration for the idea of bronzing, I'll eat my hat. Because why else would they decide to unbronze H.G. Wells? They could have picked anyone to be MacPherson's accomplice.
> 
> 2) That says so much about Helena's character in general: the idea of waiting a hundred years for something better; the confusion she must have felt when 'something better' turned out to be so vague; the terrible identity crisis she had to have gone through after being awakened and meeting Myka. Did she turn from a disillusioned inventor hell-bent on revenge into someone noble and good, or was she all of those things already?
> 
> Anyway, I have a lot of those feelings and a lot of Helena/team-bonding feelings, so this is really just one giant story about everyone.
> 
> Also, if you're interested in the classical pieces Helena puts on her iPod, they are as follows:
> 
> [Schumann's Traumerei](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wUbXLD2cBCs)\--my favorite bittersweet song  
> [Tchaikovksy's 6th](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KZqQipeOzpU)\--specifically the fourth movement because the whole thing is an hour long and this is years of sadness condensed into ten minutes  
> [Mahler's Ninth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zHXJw9avAn0)\--and this is the whole thing because you can't just listen to a little bit of Mahler; he must be experienced all the way through. this is 91 minutes long and you will be Mahled by every one of them.*
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed; leave a comment either way.
> 
> *I apologize for the terrible pun.


End file.
